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‘MR. ROWL 


BOOKS BY 
D. K. BROSTER 


“Mr. Rowl” 

Sir Isumbras at the Ford 
The Yellow Poppy 
The Wounded Name 


Joint Author of 
Chantemerle 
The Vision Splendid 



















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COPYRIGHT, 1924, BY , 

DOUBLEDAY, PAGE & COMPANY ^ 

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES 
AT 

THE COUNTRY LIFE PRESS, GARDEN CITY, N. Y. 

First Edition 

APR 28 *24 

©C1A792149 Cl- 


The author desires to express great indebtedness 
to the late Francis Abell’s most valuable and inter¬ 
esting book, “Prisoners of War in Britain, 1756- 
1815,” without which this story would probably 
never have been written, and also to the late Dr. 
T. J. Walker’s “The D^pot for Prisoners of War 
at Norman Cross, Huntingdonshire, 1796 to 1816.” 








, \ 






CONTENTS 

PART I. THE HAPPY VALLEY 

CHAPTER PAGE 

I. “Le jeune et beau Dunois”. 1 

II. “Mr. Rowl” Gets into Trouble.16 

III. How Juliana Asserted her Independence ... 28 

.IV. “Fortune Favours the-”.39 

V. “Broke-Parole!”.50 

VI. Fiat Justitia, Ruat Ccelum.62 

PART II. THE COST OF A WHIM 

I. Forgotten?.79 

II. The Shadow of Huntingdon Gaol.91 

III. Two Remorses . 107 

IV. A Better Gift than “Rasselas”. 116 

V. The Yoke-Fellow.131 

VI. Raoul Meets the Devil in Bridgwater.145 

VII. No Escape .155 

PART III. THE MAKING OF A WILDCAT 
I. Tight Shoes .167 

II. Departure of the Senora TomAs.178 

III. Departure of her Successor.189 

vii 

















viii CONTENTS 

CHAPTER 

IV. The Battle of the Spare Bedroom. 

V. The Cruise of the “Kestrel”. 

VI. Revenge and Hervey Barrington . 

VII. “I Have THE Honour TO Report . . . . • 

VIII. The Sapphire Necklace and the Major of the Buffs 

IX. News from Plymouth. 

X. “Will He Hate Me Still?”. 

XI. The Last Shot. 


PAGE 

204 

216 

230 

243 

253 

262 

274 

284 


PART IV. A MONTH OF MIRACLES 


I. Several Discoveries. 301 

II. Juliana’s Immortelles. 316 

III. Relinquishing a Dream. 327 

IV. What Miss Lavinia Brought Home. 336 

V. The Marriage of Dunois. 349 









PART I 

THE HAPPY VALLEY 









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1 



“MR. ROWL” 


CHAPTER I 

“LE JEUNE ET BEAU DUNOIS” 

“Here is neither labour to be endured nor danger to be dreaded, yet 
here is all that labour or danger can procure or purchase. Look round 
and tell me which of your wants is without supply: if you want noth¬ 
ing, how are you unhappy?”—/^osseZas, chap. hi. 

It was quite likely that at an earlier stage of the afternoon 
the youthful and lively little company in the drawing room 
at Northover had been playing forfeits, or something 
equally childish. But when Mr. Ralph Bentley, the owner 
of Northover, strolled along the terrace about half-past 
five o^clock with a couple of companions, they were making 
music, for a very pleasant tenor voice came floating through 
the windows, which, because it was a fine mid-March day, 
were slightly open. The voice was singing ‘'Since First I 
Saw Your Face.'' 

The middle-aged gentlemen outside stopped to listen. 
“Very tuneful, egad!" observed one of them. “Who's the 
minstrel,^ Bentley? " 

“Judging from the 'r's', I should say it is our captive 
friend des Sablieres," responded the master of the house 
with a smile. “Don't you think so, Ramage?" 

“The sun whose beams most glorious are,'" sang the 
voice; but the brow of the gentleman just addressed in no 
way resembled that luminary. 

“What right has a French prisoner to be singing English 
songs?" he growled. “If he must sing at all, let him keep 
to his own jargon!" 

“But surely one should admire the Frenchman's enter¬ 
prise," objected the first speaker. “And he sings the old 
song very well. How did he learn it, I wonder? " 

1 


2 


^^MR. ROWL” 


Better ask him, Sturgis,^' replied Mr. Bentley with a 
twinkle, as the unseen singer declared that where'er he went 
he would leave his heart behind him, and applause greeted 
the end of the song. 

''I had almost asked you, Bentley,” said Mr. Sturgis, 
who had only that day arrived on a visit to Northover, 
''what a French prisoner was doing singing any kind of song 
in your house, having forgotten for the moment that Wan- 
field was now a parole town. You have a good few of 
Boney's officers here, I expect?” 

"Only about eighty—not nearly so many as at Reading 
or Oswestry. Wanfield is only a small place, as you know.” 

"Eighty too many!” remarked Mr. Ramage, who seemed 
possessed by a grievance. "They are a damned nuisance, 
and Bannister, the agent, is too easy with them. Hardly 
a week passes but one of them breaks his parole or is up to 
some dirty trick or other!” 

"Come, come, Ramage,” interposed Mr. Bentley, "you 
exaggerate, my dear fellow. We have not really had a case 
since December, 1812—since last year, in fact—^when that 
major of engineers took the key of the fields, as I believe he 
would call it. He got clear off, too.” 

"Yes, and how?” enquired Mr. Ramage indignantly, the 
very wig he conservatively wore bristling with indignation. 
"Disgraceful to say, with English assistance! To think 
what some people will do for money—that for the sake of 
gain there should exist throughout the country a regular 
gang of escape agents who live by it as by a trade! But I 
have got my eye on that man Zachary Miller—^pedlar, 
poacher, and what not—and one day I shall catch him at his 
nefarious practices! I am convinced that it was he was the 
go-between with Major Suchet and those even greater 
scoundrels on the coast.” 

"Zachary Miller?” enquired a fresh voice, proceeding 
from a tall, fair, handsome gentleman of about thirty who 
had come unperceived along the terrace and joined them. 
"What about Zachary Miller? Not poaching again, I 
hope? I had him up before me last month, but he man¬ 
aged to prove an alibi.” 

Mr. Ramage turned eagerly to the newcomer. "Not 
poaching, no, Sir Francis. I suspect him of something 


^‘LE JEUNE ET BEAU DUNOIS’’ 


3 

much worse—only there again nothing can be proved 
against him/' 

^^Ramage thinks he is a sort of escape agent for the 
prisoners, Mulholland," supplied Mr. Bentley rather 
quizzically. ‘^That is a somewhat more ambitious occupa¬ 
tion than poaching." 

''A better paid one, anyhow," observed Sir Francis Mul- 
holland. ‘Uf you would tell me what you know about 
Zachary Miller, Mr. Ramage, I should be greatly obliged 
to you, for I am tired of finding him prowling in my woods 
for no apparent reason. But let us remove ourselves for the 
purpose, since I know that Mr. Bentley finds it hard to be¬ 
lieve anything to the discredit of the French prisoners." 

''Now, my dear fellow!" protested his host, but Sir 
Francis, with a smile which seemed to show that he was 
only jesting, slipped his arm through that of the detractor of 
Zachary Miller and they walked away, he inclining his head 
to listen to the gesture-emphasized disclosures of the smaller 
man. 

"That is Mulholland of Mulholland Park, I take it?" ob¬ 
served Mr. Sturgis to his friend. " I did not quite catch his 
name when you introduced us just now. I seem to remem¬ 
ber that he had just succeeded his uncle in the estate when I 
visited you two years ago, but that he had not yet taken up 
his residence. The prospect, however, if I am not mis¬ 
taken, was then causing a considerable fiutter among the 
young ladies of the district and their mammas." 

Mr. Bentley smiled. "It was, and the flutter continued 
unabated until about three months ago, when he ceased to 
be the very eligible parti at whom they were all setting their 
caps." 

"Ceased? Why?" 

" Became he became engaged. And the mortifying thing 
to the fair of the neighbourhood was, that he laid Mulhol¬ 
land Park at the feet of no local aspirant after all, although 
—^and this perhaps made it the more bitter—^his chosen 
lady was staying at Wanfield at the time, in this house, in 
fact. Sir Francis Mulholland is betrothed to a very charm¬ 
ing young lady. Miss Juliana Forrest, a school friend of my 
daughter's." 

"Juliana Forrest—Lord Fulgrave's daughter?" 


4 


‘‘MR. ROWL^’ 


“The same. She is one of the party in the drawing room 
now, for she has been staying with Mrs. Mulholland — 
though she goes away the day after to-morrow, and then 
returns, I hope, to visit us here at Northover. Don't fall in 
love with her if you can help it, Sturgis; I have a fancy that, 
though he tries not to show it, Mulholland is infernally 
jealous.” 

“ He could hardly be jealous of an old man of sixty! And 
so they met here, at Northover?'' 

“He was accepted last January under this very roof—to 
be exact, I believe, in the small room off the drawing room 
where I keep my Chinese porcelain.” 

^ Mr. Sturgis looked away for a moment. Sir Francis and 
his companion had disappeared round the comer of the 
house. “I should have thought, Bentley,” he said slowly 
—“pardon an old friend, won't you?—that Mulholland and 
your own pretty girl . . . had you never thought of 

the match?” 

Mr. Bentley showed a heartfree smile on his daughter's 
account. “Laetitia, my dear fellow, is going to marry her 
second cousin. And—^try to believe that it is not a case 
of sour grapes—she does not greatly like Mulholland; I 
can't think why. Possibly because—well, you know what 
girlish friendships are. Yet hers and Juliana's seems as 
strong as ever; in fact, I sometimes wonder how Sir Francis 
likes his betrothed spending as much time at Northover 
as, I am glad to say, she does, and what he said when he 
heard that she was going to pay us, and not his mother, a 
visit in April. . . . Where have he and Ramage got 
to, I wonder?” 

“Some quiet spot where they can discuss the chance of 
getting this Mr. Zachary Miller transported, I imagine,” 
returned his friend. “ It is transportation now, is it not, for 
helping a prisoner of war to escape?” 

“Since last year, yes. But I cannot say that so far the 
fact has done much to deter escapes, though I suppose it has 
raised their cost. It is a very surprising thing to me, this 
inability of the French to respect their parole of honour. 
My old Royalist friend, the Comte de Sainte-Suzanne, who 
has been an exile for twenty years and lived here for twelve 
of them, assigns it all, of course, to the spirit which came in 


“LE JEUNE ET BEAU DUNOIS” 


at the Revolution. He says that the majority of these 
officers are destitute alike of breeding and of military tradi¬ 
tion, so what can one expect?'' 

o have a Frenchman of the other party living 

here? exclaimed Mr. Sturgis with interest. “Yes of 
course I remember him now. How do the two kinds 
mix?'" 

.^out as well as oil and vinegar. The Comte ignores 
Bonapartist prisoner he may happen to meet. Young 
des Sabheres, who was singing just now, is about the sole 
exception, and I think he tolerates him only because he is of 
go 9 d family and has a pleasing address. It is a mercy that 
It is so, for Sainte-Suzanne being such an old friend, and 
having the freedom of Northover, he and Mr. Howl meet 
here fairly often.” 

“Mr. Rowl?” queried his guest 

Mr. Bentley smiled. “The shop people and so on, who 
can t get their tongues round M. Raoul des Sablieres' family 
name, call him by that form of his Christian one.” 

“Is Mr. Rowl the only one of the paroled officers who has 
the pnvilege of your hospitality?” 

“No; I daresay there are about half-a-dozen others. 
But he IS here the most frequently. A charming fellow, we 
all think him, even though he is an enemy—^and when he 
was at large, I somehow fancy, a pretty daring one. Not 
that he ever talks of his exploits. He is a hussar, and was 
wounded and captured at Salamanca last summer.” 

They took a turn up and down. Someone was now play¬ 
ing the pianoforte with vigour. “ That's Laetitia,” said her 
father. “We might go in when she has finished her per¬ 
formance.” 


“Before we do, and before the patriotic Mr. Ramage 
comes^ back,” said Mr. Sturgis, talang his friend by the 
arm, “tell me something, my dear Bentley. I presume 
that here, as elsewhere, the prisoners are strictly limited 
as to where they may go—one mile along the turnpike road 
from either confine of the town being their boundary, eh?” 

Mr. Bentley nodded. 

“Well, my dear friend, when last I visited you the first 
milestone—I distinctly remember the fact—stood a few 
yards to the left of your entrance gates, between you and 


‘‘MR. ROWL^' 


6 

Wanfield. Now it is a few yards on the right! Has North- 
over shifted its position since 1811? I understand that an 
earthquake tremor was felt last year in some parts of 
England!” 

“It wasn^t an earthquake, Sturgis. I had the distance 
from the town remeasured, and it was found to be . . . 

slightly incorrect.” And as Mr. Sturgis laughed and shook 
his finger at him the good gentleman added half apologetic¬ 
ally: “The poor devils have so few distractions! And as I 
am a magistrate, and was actually deputy sheriff at the time 
of the—the correction, no one dared to say anj^hing. Yet 
some day” (and here Mr. Bentley [lowered his voice and 
glanced over his shoulder), “I half expect to find that Ram- 
age has remeasured the distance yet again on his own ac¬ 
count, and laid his discovery before another magistrate— 
Mulholland perhaps.” 

“Curious, if you come to think of it,” said Mr. Sturgis 
reflectively, “that all over England and Scotland these 
French officers on parole are living freely amongst us, and 
in many cases are received into our family circles!” 

“And why not?” asked Mr. Bentley. “They fought 
clean; every soldier from the Peninsula says that. Well, let 
us go in; I fancy that Laetitia is drawing to the close of that 
newest display of fireworks of hers, the ‘Siege of Badajoz.’ 
If the actual event was really as noisy as that, I am glad I 
was not there.” 

It was a charming scene into which Mr. Bentley ushered 
the new arrival, for the wide, low room, whose last-century 
chintzes still survived in this thirteenth year of the new, was 
brightened by groups in narrow high-waisted gowns and 
sandals, in long-tailed blue or brown coats and tight panta¬ 
loons and frills, the wearers of which, all young and all 
animated, seemed to be enjoying themselves hugely, and, 
now that the strains of Mr. Wesley's “characteristic sonata” 
no longer resounded, were making a good deal more noise 
than even the pianoforte had done. 

Laetitia Bentley, a pretty, fair girl in white and yellow, 
still sat at that instrument, but she was looking up and 
talking to another of her own sex. Leaning against the 
pianoforte, and studying some music outspread upon it, 


“LE JEUNE ET BEAU DUNOIS’’ 


7 


was a young man of about four and twenty who caught the 
eye at once by reason of his unlikeness to any of the other 
young men present; and that not so Piuch by his good 
looks as by his naturally more lively expression, his air of 
being able to set himself instantly in motion with the 
minimum of effort, like a well-trained runner or a deer. He 
was dark-haired, but fair-skinned, with a suggestion of sun¬ 
burn that had survived captivity and winter; his little 
moustache, so slight that it was hardly more than a pencilled 
line across his lip, like that of a Stuart gallant, left the firm 
but sweet-tempered mouth revealed. Y^et its mere presence 
sufficed to stamp him as not English. ''That, of course, is 
'Mr. Rowl,''' said Mr. Sturgis to himself. 

The sound of the door opening had been drowned in 
chatter, but suddenly Laetitia caught sight of her father 
and rose quickly from the music stool; the young French¬ 
man too raised his head and saw him, and his face lit up with 
a very pleasant smile. There was a general chorus of 
exclamation, and Mr. Sturgis, welcomed a little shyly by his 
host's daughter, was presented to all the ladies severally, 
and before long found himself engaged in converse with 
her whose acquaintance had been specially promised him— 
Miss Juliana Forrest. 

She was a tall, dark, handsome girl with a beautifully 
modelled head on a long neck, an exquisite mouth, and an 
air of race—"a typical beauty," thought Mr. Sturgis to 
himself, "and with all the airs and graces of one too. I'll war¬ 
rant." But as he chatted to her a little, telling her how he 
had known her father at Cambridge, he found her not quite 
what he had looked to find, but more lively, natural, and 
open, more charming, in short, than he had surmised from 
his first glance at her. 

A little later, after he had been called away by Mr. 
Bentley to be presented to someone else, he perceived that 
the young French officer (who, however, was not in uni¬ 
form) had gone up to her where she sat in her long-sleeved 
gown of lilac sarcenet, spotted with amber, on a small couch 
in a comer of the room. She looked beautiful and ani¬ 
mated ; his face the observer could not see. " Making pretty 
speeches, of course," he reflected—"a Frenchman's main 
idea of conversation with a woman." 


8 


'^MR. ROWL^’ 


But, if he could have overheard, he would have dis¬ 
covered the chief subject of the little interview to- be quite 
other. So too might Sir Francis Mulholland who, having 
just come in, was watching the couple, unobserved, from 
his place near the door. 

''And so you are leaving us on Saturday, Mademoiselle?’* 
the young man was saying. 

'^' Yes, for about a month. Monsieur. But I shall find you 
here, no doubt, when I return?” 

Raoul des Sablieres made a little face. "My chance of 
being exchanged is so small that I fear you will. Pardon 
my ill manners! At any rate, I have something to look 
forward to—your return. Mademoiselle ... I must 
strive, must I not, that my English, improved, I dare to 
hope, by the books which you and Miss Bentley have been 
so kind as to lend me, shall not fall away while you are 
absent.” 

"Your English is very good indeed. Monsieur,” said Miss 
Forrest, who had lent the young Frenchman books in that 
tongue just because, speaking and imderstanding it so well 
(he had passed his childhood in England), he could ap¬ 
preciate them. "Ah, that reminds me—how annoying! 
I had intended before leaving Wanfield to lend you my 
copy of Rasselas, and to bring it here to-day, but I forgot. 
It is written, you know, in the most excellent style; you 
could not do better than to study it.” 

"I should be only too delighted,” said M. des Sablieres 
with an inclination. "But, alas, I cannot come and 
fetch it from Mulholland Park, since that is out of bounds.” 

"So it is!” agreed Miss Juliana. "How vexatious! I 
must send the book then to your lodgings by one of the ser¬ 
vants—you lodge with Miss Hitchings, I think? But then 
I shall not be able to point out to you my favourite passages, 
as I had designed.” 

"‘Mats cela, c’est desolant!’* exclaimed the prospective 
reader. 'What is one to do?” He could not, of course, 
suggest that she should accompany the book to his lodg¬ 
ings. 

The Honourable Juliana pondered. She was a very 
high-spirited young lady, accustomed to having her own 
way, and equally unaccustomed to having that way criti- 


9 


‘‘LE JEUNE ET BEAU DUNOIS” 

cized—much less controlled, as a certain person was tr5dng 
to control it at present. Still, to inform a young foreigner, 
whom, after all, she did not know very well, that she pur¬ 
posed coming to Northover to-morrow afternoon to take 
farewell of Laetitia Bentley, and to apprise him of her 
homeward route in case he also should be taking a walk... 
no, even with so laudable an aim as the personal bestowal 
on him of Doctor Johnson^s model of style, it would not 
do. . . . 

must mark the passages before I send Rasselas to you, 
M. des Sablieres,'" was her conclusion, and Raoul had hardly 
bowed his acquiescence before a deputation of young ladies 
was upon him, begging him to sing again—a French song 
this time, and by preference a new one, since he had sung 
them so very antiquated an English air; Heaven knew 
where he could have unearthed it! 

''New?'' repeated Captain des Sabli^res doubtfully. 
**MaiSy ckeres demoiselles, where do you think I have been 
these last three years to learn the new ditties of Paris?" 

"Did you never sing in Spain, then, 'Mr. Rowl'?" half 
mischievously enquired one damsel. 

"Yes—hymns," replied Raoul with entire gravity. But 
before the protesting laughter had subsided he admitted, 
*'Eh hieuy yes, I know one new song—at least, it was new 
two years ago. I heard it first on the banks of the Caya— 
Queen Hortense's ballad about le jeune et beau DunoiSy 
partant pour la Syrie in the time of the . . . the 

Croisades. I can play the air tant bien que mal.” Bowing 
to Miss Forrest, he went towards the pianoforte, the little 
group following him with questions about the song and its 
writer, and Juliana Forrest was left alone in her comer, on 
which Sir Francis Mulholland immediately stalked across 
to her, his face rather thunderous. But Miss Forrest, if 
she noticed any meteorological symptoms, did not betray her 
knowledge, as she remarked evenly, "Ah, there you are, 
Francis!" 

"There I have been for some time," returned her be¬ 
trothed. "I was waiting until you were disengaged." 

His tone was not exactly disagreeable, but neither was it 
the tone of rnere jest. Juliana shot a little glance up at him. 
That Francis was jealous, and sometimes jnsanely jealous. 


10 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


she had discovered about three days after her engagement; 
at first the fact had amused her, but it had soon ceased to 
do so. 

"'But that was very unnecessary,she returned cheer¬ 
fully. " I, on my part, had been wondering where you were 
got to all this time.'" 

"I did not observe any signs of solicitude. Had there 
really been any speculation in your mind, you could have 
seen me standing by the farther door these five minutes or 
so." 

"My dear Francis," returned the girl with a shade of im¬ 
patience, "you surely do not desire to see me craning my 
neck in all directions to observe your whereabouts every 
moment that I have not the pleasure of your society! I 
would not wish to make either of us ridiculous. And, as you 
are now happily arrived, pray sit down and listen to the new 
French song which M. des Sablieres is about to sing to us." 

Sir Francis did not sit down. The word "ridiculous" 
had brought a slight colour to his cheek. " I have no desire 
to hear French songs. I came to ask you to give me a few 
moments' private conversation—in the Chinese room over 
there, for instance." 

"Willingly," replied Miss Forrest, "when the song is over. 
Hush—it is just going to begin. Pray, Francis. . . 

''Partant pmr la Syri.,..e” 
sang Mr. Rowl, seated at the pianoforte, 

**Lejmne et beau Dunois 
Venait prier Man....e 
De benir ses exploits. 

Faites, reine immortell....e, 

L/ui dit~il en partant, 

Qu^aime de la plus bell....e 
Je sots le plus vaillant!** 

And, fidget and scowl though Miss Forrest's future lord did 
throughout the following three verses, he had to remain 
beside her. The moment, however, that the last note was 
dr9wned m applause, he gave her a significant glance, and 
going to a neighbouring door, held it open for her. Un¬ 
hurriedly the Honourable Juliana rose and passed through 


“LE JEUNE ET BEAU DUNOIS” 


11 


it into a little room containing an old spinet, one or two fine 
Queen Anne chairs, and much Chinese porcelain, mostly 
imprisoned in cabinets. 

She turned on the young man as he shut the door behind 
them. ‘^So this is to be an interview en regie! We had 
another in here once!'' And she smiled, a delightful 
roguish smile calculated, one would have thought, to dis¬ 
sipate the most obstinate male sulks. But what is it that 
needs such solemn precautions, and that cannot be said 
when we go home presently in your curricle? " 

‘‘You forget the groom," replied Sir Francis rather 
shortly. He took a turn down the room and then began 
to study a famille verte vase on its shelf, while Miss Forrest, 
sinking into a chair, watched him half mischievously. 
“Juliana," he said at length, not looking at her, “you may 
not like what I am about to say to you, but I beg you to 
believe that I must say it." 

“ If it is a duty, then I certainly would not keep you from 
its performance," said Miss Forrest equably. “Pray pro¬ 
ceed, or we may be interrupted before your task is ac¬ 
complished." 

Thus adjured, the gentleman turned from the porcelain 
and faced her. 

“I desire, I request you, when you return to Wanfield 
next month, to have nothing more to do with Captain des 
Sablieres." 

The colour sprang up in Juliana's cheeks, and her hands 
went to the short walnut-wood arms of her chair. 

“And the reason, pray?" 

“ Because I do not like him," said Sir Francis with brevity. 

“But if I do?" 

“ I must still ask you to oblige me in the matter." 

Juliana returned her hands to her lap. “I find him 
intelligent, amusing, and well-bred," she announced calmly. 
“What have you against him?" 

“He is a French prisoner—and what does one know of a 
French prisoner's antecedents?" 

“Captain des Sablieres is a gentleman—his name alone 
shows it," observed Miss Forrest. 

“His name may not be his own." 

“Then his bearing, his manners show it." 


12 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


‘'Even that fact does not make him a suitable companion 
for a girl of your station, Juliana/' 

“A girl of my station, Francis, is accustomed to judge of 
that for herself." 

“Pardon me, not in the case of a man to whom her future 
husband objects." 

“No, perhaps not—if the man in question were really a 
'companion,'" admitted Miss Forrest somewhat coldly. 
“But look at the facts, Francis. I have seen very little 
more of M. des Sablieres than of any other prisoner at Wan- 
field—^for indeed, it is Laetitia Bentley, and not I, who has 
had most of his society. I meet him occasionally at other 
houses, rather more often here, but always in company. 
As it happens, I have never spoken with him actually 
alone." 


“I should think not, indeed!" commented Sir Francis 
between his teeth. 

Miss Forrest stopped in her discourse and looked at 
him. 

“And of what, pray, would you be afraid if I were to find 
myself alone with a young man for a quarter of an hour or 
so? Do you realize, Francis, that you are maldng very 
strange and unflattering reflections on my character and 
upbringing?" 

Her betrothed came nearer. “ Do not try to misinterpret 
®P' Juliana,' he protested, in a voice of mingled injury 
“You know that I am doing nothing of 
the knd. But the idea of your being alone with that fel¬ 
low for any length of time is outrageous. Do you not know 
what Frenchmen are?" 

said Miss Forrest. A sprite appeared in her 
now that you have excited my curiositv I 
think I should like to find out." 

“Juliana!” 

She swept on, unheeding the explosion. '^But how a 
young man—even one of these terrible Frenchmen—con¬ 
ducts himseh with a lady depends chiefly, I imagine, upon 
the lady Do you think that /’’—she drew up her long 
neck and looked like Diana ” that I am likely to allow any 
man to take liberties with me? " ^ 

, “Not for a moment, Juliana—not for a moment!” as- 


LE JEUNE ET BEAU DUNOIS’’ 


13 


severated the jealous lover. ‘'But it is impossible to be¬ 
lieve that a man exists who would not try to make love to 
you if he had the chance.'^ 

“Which,” completed Juliana with a little smile, “you 
do not intend that any man living but yourself shall 
have?” 

He stooped over her and possessed himself of a hand. 
“Can you blame me? No, I do not intend it, and you, you 
beautiful creature, when you accepted this,” he kissed the 
gleaming ruby on her finger, “you assented to that compact, 
did you not?” 

“Yes,” said the girl. “And I have kept my share of it. 
But in this matter of M. des Sablieres-” 

“You will do what I ask, will you not, my darling?” he 
broke in, and made a movement as though to kiss her. 
Juliana slipped instantly out of the chair. Then she turned 
to him, and her look was grave. 

“No, Francis, it is as useless trying to cajole me as it is to 
dragoon me. Day by day this ridiculous and quite causeless 
jealousy of yours is growing more insupportable. Now it is 
this man, now another; soon I shall be able to speak to none 
under the age of a grandfather without incurring your 
frowns. I have tried to be patient, but now I see that it is 
culpable in me to give way to you, that by doing so I am 
preparing a sort of slavery for myself. For I am an English¬ 
woman, and you are not living in Turkey, as you sometimes 
appear to think.” 

An attack so direct plainly staggered Sir Francis Mulhol- 
land. He seemed to be about to make a fiery retort, then 
lost his balance and countered lamely, “So my wishes —my 
wishes—^have no weight with you? ” 

“Yes, certainly they have, when they are reasonable. 
But to forbid a perfectly innocent acquaintance with a well- 
behaved and rather lonely young man whom chance has 
thrown in my way-” 

“Lonely!” ejaculated her affianced, recovering himself. 
“That foreign nightingale in there lonely! And chance, 
indeed! Was the part he took with you in those theatricals 
last month due to chance?” 

Miss Forrest's gravity relaxed. “No, to talent,” she 
retorted. “As he happened to be the only young man in 


14 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


the neighbourhood who did not look uncouth and absurd 

disguised as a woman- 

His selection was due to you! Do not deny it!'' 

‘'Certainly not. I am proud to think that it was M. des 
Sablieres as the gipsy girl who was the success of the eve¬ 
ning.” 

“Especially in the scene with you! I watched you both, 
Juliana-” 

“I should hope you did! I was told I looked very well 
as a wood-cutter's daughter. Though if you had con¬ 
descended to act yourself, as you were requested, Francis, 
you would not have been under the painful necessity of 
looking on—if it was painful.” 

Sir Francis stifled some remark which sounded remark¬ 
ably like a cm-se. “Juliana, for God's sake drop this levity, 
this trifling with a serious question! You are-” 

She interrupted him firmly. “You quite misapprehend, 
Francis. I am not trifling—far from it. It is indeed a 
serious question. You are trying to impose on me a per¬ 
fectly unreasonable demand. And, leaving aside that it is 
unreasonable in itself, how do you suppose that, when I 
come to stay in this house, I am to avoid meeting a guest 
who frequents it as much as M. des Sablieres does? Stay 
in my room—^by your orders—when this dangerous foreigner 
is annoimced ... or ask Laetitia to have him refused 
entrance—^and tell her why? He would have to be told 
too . . . and might be flattered at your apprehen¬ 
sions, I imagine.” 

Sir Francis, darkly red, was gripping the back of a chair. 
“Juliana,” he said thickly, “are you trying to see how far 
you can go with me?” 

“No,” answered she, her head very high, “only trying to 
show you how far you go—to lengths which, three months 
ago, in this very room, we could neither of us have foreseen. 
I think.” 

Mulholland's colour suddenly faded, faded to real pallor. 
The words seemed to hold a veiled threat. But he had no 
opp9rtimity of ascertaining this, for (with a good deal of 
preliminary rattling, it is true) the door leading from the 
drawing room opened, and their host apologetically put his 
head in. 




“LE JEUNE ET BEAU DUNOIS 


15 


**l am so sorry, but they are clamouring for you, Juliana, 
in there, and I could deny them no longer. Do not hate 
me, my dear.” 

Juliana went to him and put her hand through his arm. 
think you come at a good moment, Mr. Bentley,” she 
said, and, without a glance at her betrothed, entered the 
drawing room. 

But, as that gentleman instantly discovered, the bone of 
contention was no longer there. 


CHAPTER II 

^^MR. ROWL’^ GETS INTO TROUBLE 

“Pride . . . isseldomdelicateiit will please itself with very mean 
advantages.”— Rasselas, chap. ix. 

After finishing his warmly received rendering of Queen 
Hortense's ballad M. Raoul des Sablieres had removed 
himself with what speed he might from the -neighbourhood 
of the pianoforte, for he was a modest young man and had 
no desire whatever to monopolize attention, particularly in 
the anomalous situation which was his. With the idea of 
suggesting to Miss Bentley that the time had come for her 
father to sing them A-Hunting We Will Go," as his custom 
was, he sought for her among the little groups, and soon 
descried her in a comer talking to a very erect old gentle¬ 
man, at sight of whose back he stopped and bit his lip. But 
at that moment the old man turned round, revealing a 
deeply marked, austere coimtenance with piercing blue 
eyes. His hair was snow-white; his clothes, spotless as they 
were, had seen long service. He wore a ribbon in his but¬ 
tonhole. 

''Ah, a French song for once, M. des Sablieres, but 
unfamiliar to me for all that," he said, with a courteous 
little inclination. "A pretty air, though I did not hear the 
words as I should have done had I been younger. Mav I 
ask what it was?" 

The singer's colour rose faintly. "No, you would not 
know it. Monsieur," he answered quickly. 'Ht is new— 
only two or three years old. . . . Mademoiselle, I came to 
ask if Mr. Bentley-" 

But Miss Bentley, disregarding his haste to leave the 
subject, ill-advisedly pursued it. "M. des Sablieres ought 
to tell you about it, Comte, as he was telling us just now, 
16 


‘*MR. ROWU* GETS INTO TROUBLE 17 

for it is so interesting. The song was written by a Queen- 
words and music too—^by Queen Hortense.'" 

The old Royalist raised his eyebrows. "‘And pray who 
is Queen Hortense?'' 

The little smile that accompanied the question was so 
acid that Miss Laetitia realized (too late) what delicate 
ground she had thus rashly invaded. “I think ... I 
forget ... is she not Queen of Westphalia—or is 

it-?” she faltered, stealing in her confusion a glance 

at M. des Sablieres, only to find that he, looking fixedly 
at his compatriot, was frowning—a phenomenon she had 
never witnessed in him before. , 

“Your ignorance, my dear Miss Laetitia,"' said the Comte 
de Sainte-Suzanne with an intensification of his double- 
edged manner, “is fully excusable, since I, a Frenchman, 
share it. But M. des Sablieres can no doubt enlighten us— 
if indeed it be worth while—or rather, enlighten me, since 
I see your father making signs to you over there." 

It was true, and Laetitia, after a rather troubled glance at 
her two French friends, left them together. Immediately 
she had gone Raoul des Sablieres remarked very stiffly, in 
their common tongue: 

“ I should hardly have thought it was worth your while. 
Monsieur, to affect ignorance of the identity of Her Majesty 
the Queen of Holland." 

“I beg your pardon," replied the old man. “The Queen 
of . . . Holland; thank you! But I am, you see, no 
. . . botanist; I am not well acquainted with the 
nomenclature of the mushroom tribe." 

“Really, M. de Sainte-Suzanne," exclaimed the young 
hussar angrily, “you exceed the bounds of-" 

“And you, M. des Sablieres, are obviously aware of no 
bounds at all! So, lest you should be contemplating ren¬ 
dering any further compositions by the self-styled mon- 
archs of that family, I will betake myself to the library. As 
far as I am concerned, you will then be free to sing the Qa 
ira, if it pleases you." And, brushing aside the young 
man's half stupefied protest, he marched to the door, an 
attempt on Raoul's part to follow him being neatly frus¬ 
trated by the intervention of two ladies and a very young 
gentleman who beset him with supplications. 


18 


‘^MR. ROWL'' 


‘'M. des Sablieres, do not go away, please! We want 
you to give us a translation of the words you sang. 
Here is Miss Curtis who understood but half, and Mr. 
Molyneux who understood none” (the very young gentle¬ 
man blushed), “and I who have but the vaguest idea of 
what it was all about. The marriage of Dunois—was 
there not a marriage?—appeared so sudden!” 

“It was a reward for his . . . what we call proi^esse,” 
stammered Raoul, the English word evading him for a 
moment imder the blue lightning shaft which was launched 
at him just before the door closed on the Comte de Sainte- 
Suzanne. He tugged angrily for a second at his tiny 
moustache. Preposterous behaviour—^and all for what! 
Then he recovered himself, and the smile which was never 
far from it twitched the comers of his mouth. “Sud¬ 
den? . . . yes, Mesdemoiselles, a little. In war, you 
know. . . . But I will translate from the beginning.” 

And, with one elbow on the mantelpiece, he rendered the 
words of the romance into English, laughing himself when 
he came to 

“De ma fille Isabelle 
Sois Vepoux a Vinstant!** 

and unaware of another listener, Mr. Sturgis, who had 
drifted to that comer of the room, and was thinking to him¬ 
self as he watched the scene, “Strange how natural and 
easy they are, these French! Graceful young beggar—pity 
he's not in uniform ... no, perhaps on the whole just 
as well, young ladies are so susceptible. . . . But light, 

imreliable, of course, like all his nation.” For Mr. Sturgis 
had no great first-hand knowledge of the French. 

“Yet, Mesdemoiselles,” he heard the expositor conclude, 
“the English chanson which I murdered to you just now is 
worth six of 'Lejeune et beau Dunois* for it has real feeling; 
this is . . . pasteboard.” 

“You are quite right. Sir,” observed Mr. Sturgis, coming 
forward. “I had the pleasure of hearing you sing ‘Since 
First I Saw Your Face,’ and you certainly brought out that 
feeling.” There was a little twinkle in his eye. 

But the young man was a match for him. He betrayed 
no sort of embarrassment; on the contrary he observed 


‘^MR. ROWL” GETS INTO TROUBLE 


19 


with a candid smile, Monsieur, one must feel what 

one sings, must one not, even when in truth one does not feel 
it at all?"' 

‘‘Oh, M. des Sablieres,” exclaimed the eldest of his little 
audience in a disappointed tone, ‘‘how unromantic! And 
we who were thinking while you sang of—of the lady 
with whom you left your heart over there in France, and 
compassionating her for your absence!"' 

“But you need not have done that. Mademoiselle,” re¬ 
plied the young hussar. “She will certainly have consoled 
herself by now—if she ever existed,” he added, with a 
mischievous smile which showed his even little teeth. 

But a young lady at the piano had now begun to play 
what she proclaimed to be “an ada^o and march in the 
Turldsh style,” and under cover of it Captain Raoul des 
Sablieres of the Third Hussars slipped quietly from the 
room with the intention of finding and making his peace 
wdth the Comte de Sainte-Suzanne. But he himself could 
not regard his alleged offence very seriously; indeed, if he 
were not so much the younger man it might well be his to 
demand an apology. Nor did he think the old Royalist 
need have hurled the Qa ira at him in that ridiculous man¬ 
ner; as if he had ever sung it, or indeed, had ever heard it 
sung! But ce vieillardrla imagined that one was still in the 
year of blood "93. 

Whether this was true of him or no, ce vieillard4a himself 
had something the outward appearance of belonging to that 
vanished world where he stood choosing a book from a case 
in Mr. Bentley's library, the light from the branched candle¬ 
stick in his hand falling kindly on his silver hair and worn 
aquiline features. He looked round as Raoul came in, and 
put down the candlestick, his mouth tightening for an 
instant. 

“ I have come to offer my apologies. Monsieur le Comte,” 
said the young soldier, standing rather erect, “for what I 
am sure you must be aware was a perfectly unintentional 
offence. And having done so, I would permit myself to 
tell you, with all respect, that I repudiate the sentiments 
and associations of the Qa ira quite as strongly as you do, 
and that to credit me with the intention of singing it-"" 

But M. de Sainte-Suzanne put up his delicate old hand. 


20 


ROWL’' 


“I am already ashamed of my speech, M. des Sabli- 
eres. I have a hasty temper, still imperfectly controlled, 

I fear, for all my long apprenticeship to adversity. I ask 
you to forgive my outburst, and, if you can, to forget it.^' 

''Willingly, Monsieur,returned Raoul, immediately 
mollified. "I hope, in return, that you will believe I never; 
meant to hurt you.'' 

"Nobody can do that now, M. des Sablieres." He turned 
his astonishingly blue, keen gaze more fully on his young 
compatriot. "But a few, a very few, can make me feel 
regret—and you are one of them. I do not need to tell 
you why. ... If I did not think the climbing rose 
outside this window here a fine plant I should not be so 
sorry to see the blight on it summer after summer. . . . 
My only son, M. des Sablieres, was about your age when 
he was killed twenty years ago at Riilzheim, serving 
with Cond4; and indeed he was not at all unlike you in 
voice and bearing. But, though life has never been the 
same for me since his loss, nothing can take away from me 
the consolation of knowing that he fell as his forefathers fell, 
and under the same flag which had led them so often to 
victory. If you had been killed in Spain, could that have 
been said of you?" 

"I should have fallen for France, Monsieur," returned 
Raoul proudly, "and been glad to give my body for her. 
None of my ancestors—or yours—did more. Does it mat¬ 
ter whether the flag which wraps a French soldier bears the 
lily or the eagle?" 

M. de Sainte-Suzanne made a gesture. "Ah, M. des 
^blieres, there is the blight I lament! Do you think it 
immaterial that you can so lightly give the title of Queen to 
the half-creole wife of an upstart who is barely a PYench- 
man, when She who last bore that title in France. . . ." 
His voice sank and died; he turned away, as from the scaf¬ 
fold he could never cease to see. 

''But, Monsieur, we are not now in the Terror!" ex¬ 
claimed Raoul. "Had I been bom when your son was 
bom, it would have been very different with me. Should I 
not also have served that beautiful and unfortunate lady? 
But, because of outrages and crimes which took place when 
I was a child of three or four, events of which I have not * 


“MR. ROWL” GETS INTO TROUBLE 21 

even a memory, must I be inactive all the best years of my 
1^. I wanted to be a soldier, to fight for my country—^for 
rrance of to-day, the new FYance. Twenty years ago I 
should have fought for the old. Is it my fault that I am, 
as you no doubt consider, bom twenty years too late?^^ 

The old Royalist turned once more and looked at him 
as he stood there, young, ardent, handsome, and argumenta¬ 
tive, and his face softened a little. 

It is extraordinary the way you resemble him,” he mur¬ 
mured almost maudibly. ^^Mais lui, il avail la Ute blonde 
Ti/r * j * ^ • • . Well, we will not discuss it, 

M. des Sabheres. I am too old to listen to new creeds, 
and you, I suppose, too young to understand mine. One 
particular of the old, however, I am glad to think that 
you observe more punctiliously than some of the new de¬ 
fenders of France, who have made a Frenchman's word of 
honour worth less than a pinch of dust in England to-day. 
Every time that I hear of a fresh case of parole-breaking I 
feel as if I could never hold up my head in an Englishman's 
presence again.'' 

**And do you suppose. Monsieur,” cried Raoul, with his 
own head held rather high, ^^that I do not feel exactly the 
same as you about it? Are you insinuating that I hold 
lightly a thing which on the contrary I regard with absolute 
abhorrence^that any soldier must so regard—the breaking 
of his sac^ word of honour?” 

^ ''The six hundred and eighty officers who have broken it 
m the last three years alone were all soldiers—or sailors,” 
observed the Comte drily. ‘^No, indeed, as I say, I do not 
think any such thing of you. But, with such examples, 
who knows? . . .” 

And, not unnaturally, this qualifying of the testimonial 
stung the young hussar to a sharper annoyance. 

"Wfien you hear that I have actually disgraced myself. 
Monsieur de Sainte-Suzanne, it will be time enough, will it 

not, to reproach me? To anticipate that day is only to-” 

He broke off, controlling himself before age and misfortune. 
“I will wish you good evening.” 

To reach the library at Northover one had to traverse 
another room, never used nowadays except for this one 


22 


‘‘MR. ROWL’' 


purpose. But as Raoul des Sablieres emerged into this 
apartment he was aware of a tall man standing looking out 
of the far window, though it was almost dark outside, with 
his hands behind his back and a little the air of waiting for 
someone; and when he was half way across the rather dimly 
lighted room this individual turned and revealed himself to 
be Sir Francis Mulholland. 

“Ah, M. des Sablieres, good evening,” said “le Roi 
Soleil,” as Raoul had christened him among his French as¬ 
sociates. “May I have the pleasure of a word with you?” 

So it was he who was awaited! Raoul, trying to digest 
his annoyance with the Comte de Sainte-Suzanne, and at no 
time particularly desirous of conversation with this gentle¬ 
man, with whom he had scarcely exchanged ten words in his 
six months at Wanfield, was obliged to reply, “With pleas¬ 
ure, Sir,” and managed to do this with his usual politeness. 
On that, finding that Sir Francis did not move from the 
window, he went towards him. 

“What I have to say is a little difficult,” began the owner 
of Mulholland Park, scrutinizing him closely. “ I trust that 
you will not take offence at it.” 

“lam not in a position. Sir, to indulge the luxury of taking 
offence,” responded Raoul non-committally, but wondering 
what on earth was coming next. 

“Ah, your speaking thus of your position makes it easier 
for me,” was Mulholland's next remark, though his man¬ 
ner did not suggest that he was finding difficulty of any 
kind. “Since you already realize, then, M. des ^blieres, 
that it is not quite that of ... of the other guests at 
Northover, perhaps the merest hint that you might with 
advantage carry that fact still more in mind may be 
enough?” 

Raoul looked at him, three-quarters bewildered. 

“To what end am I to carry it in mind?” he asked 
shortly. 

“Well, to take an example,” said Sir Francis, with a little 
smile which he perhaps intended to be deprecating, ^‘we all 
realize that you have a pleasing voice, but it is possible, you 
know, to have too much of a good thing.” 

Raoul coloured. “You mean that I talk too much?” 

“I should not venture to express an opinion on that 


“MR. ROWL” GETS INTO TROUBLE 23 

point,” returned “le Roi Soleil” with an air of diplomacy. 

I was referring rather to your vocal gifts, in the exercise of 
which—forgive me!—you are certainly not sparing. Two 
songs in the space of half an hour—and neither of them, if 
I may say so, in the best of taste, all things considered/^ 
'Monsieur, I think you are impertinent!'' said Raoul, 
sha^ly. 

Sir Francis shrugged his shouldere. “ I warned you that 
my errand was unpleasant." 

"Eirand!" Raoul took him up. "Who sent you on that 
errand? Not Mr. Bentley, I am sure." 

"No, I have no commission from Mr. Bentley, though I 
think that, for your own sake, he would approve of what I 
am saying. For my only desire (if you would but believe 
it)^is to present you, out of good-will, mth a hint." 

"I do not take hints from you. Sir, whatever prompts 
them!" said Raoul, drawing himself up. But Sir Francis 
from his superior height looked across the embrasure at him 
with an olympian air which was hard to stomach. 

"That is a pity, M. des Sablieres, because it would really 
be better, again for your own sake, that you should re¬ 
flect whether your very frequent presence at Northover 
IS not putting too great a strain even on Mr. Bentlev's 
hospitality." 

Naturally sweet-tempered as he was, Raoul began to feel 
that this was too much. "The day that Mr. Bentley him- 
self-" he began warmly, but Sir Francis bore him down. 

"Mr. Bentley, as you well know, is too kind-hearted ever 
to suggest such a thing. Let me put another consideration 
before you, then. Do you suppose that it is a source of 
satisfaction to the gentlemen of this neighbourhood to find 
a person of your nationality present at almost every gather¬ 
ing, and upally in a position of prominence which his own 
better feelings should have led him to avoid? " 

Now this indictment, wounding as it was, might, for all 
the young Frenchman knew, have some truth behind it, 
though he had never observed the slightest signs of ill- 
will towards him among the local gentry, with many of whom 
he was on excellent terms. And he had always been most 
careful not to push himself forward. Still, if there were one 
or two who disliked him . . . But while he stood 


‘‘MR. ROWL^' 


24 

silent, honestly trying to face such a possibility, Sir Francis 
saw fit to follow up his advantage by adding, in the most 
openly insolent manner: “You are only here at all, you 
know, on sufferance!'' 

Raoul could not suppress a little gasp. “Thank you for 
the so courteous reminder!" he said. Then he gripped the 
edge of the card table in the window and became rather dan¬ 
gerously quiet. “You will tell me, please, whether in doing 
me this land office you are speaking for yourself alone, or 
whether you have been deputed by others to insult me?" 

“And I also should like to be informed on that point," 
said a level voice behind them, and both, turning round in 
surprise, beheld the Comte de Sainte-Suzanne on the 
threshold of the library. “ I take it. Sir Francis," he con¬ 
tinued, coming forward a little, “that the recommendation 
you have just so tactfully made to M. des Sablieres applies 
to me also, a Frenchman, an exile and an habitu4 of North- 
over. I am only sorry that my reliance on Mr. Bentley's 
ever-ready welcome has led me, like my young fellow 
countryman here, to offend Mr. Bentley's other guests. 
You may be sure that I shall make him and them the pro- 
foundest apologies." 

If the young fellow countryman had been in a laughing 
mood he might have enjoyed the stupefaction and then the 
patent alarm of his aggressor. “ Monsieur le Comte," stam¬ 
mered “le Roi Soleil," leaving the window, “I beg of you 
. . . my remarks were of course not meant ... I 
was not aware . . ." 

“Then if you do not wish Mr. Bentley to know how un¬ 
justifiably you have been trying to dictate to one of his 
guests in his house," said the old man sternly, “I suggest 
that you immediately apologise to M. des Sablieres for 
your last very gross observation." 

“No, no, a forced apology is of no use to me, M. de 
Sainte-Suzanne!" cried Raoul quickly. ‘ ‘And, for my part, 
I would point out to this gentleman that since he so much 
dislikes my visits here, the remedy is simple—he can cease 
his own." 

“You impudent-" began Sir Francis, taking a step 

towards him, but the old man broke in sharply. 

“M. des Sablieres, look at the clock there! You have 


‘‘MR. ROWL^' GETS INTO TROUBLE 25 

but just time to take leave of the company and to reach 
your lodgings before curfew. That obligation takes pre¬ 
cedence of everything else at this moment.'" 

Raoul's eyes had instinctively followed his pointing 
finger, and he saw indeed that the tall clock in the comer 
marked twenty minutes to seven, and by seven he must 
be back under the roof of Miss Eliza Hitchings in the little 
town. 

“Thank you. Monsieur," he said to the old Royalist with 
a mixture of real gratitude and of regret at having to quit 
the field of battle. “And thank you still more," he added in 
his own tongue, “for your generosity just now in classing 
yourself with me; I shall not forget it." He bowed to him, 
looked at Sir Francis in no pacific fashion, and remarking 
“We must finish this conversation. Sir, another time," left 
the room. 

He was excessively angry, but it was imperative to bottle 
down his wrath for the moment, since he must return to the 
drawing room and make his farewells without an instant's 
delay. As he hurried toward that apartment he rejected 
the idea of slipping out of the house without taking leave, 
not only because it would be discourteous, but also because 
Sir Francis, if he heard of it, might draw very incorrect con¬ 
clusions as to the effect of his admonitions. No; good 
manners at any cost, even if he all but burst with the con¬ 
straint he was putting upon himself as he opened the draw¬ 
ing-room door. 

Afterwards he was to think how differently things might 
have gone if he had not made that sacrifice to politeness 
and pride. 

His reentry into the lighted drawing room was hailed with 
questions as to where he had been and reproaches for his 
absence. Smiling, shaking his head, and reminding his 
critics that a good prisoner had to be home by seven o'clock 
this month, and that he should have to run most of the mile 
to the town as it was, he made his way to Miss Bentley and 
apologized for his hasty leave-taking. 

“All right, my boy," said Mr. Bentley, coming up from be¬ 
hind and clapping him upon the shoulder. “Letty quite 
understands. Off with you—but be sure you come extra 
early on Tuesday to make up, that's all." 


26 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


“Yes, you have not forgotten Tuesday, I hope, M. des 
Sabli^res?'' enquired Laetitia anxiously. “The concert, 
you laiow.” 

No, it did not seem as if the Bentleys, at all events, felt 
that he trespassed too often upon their hospitality. 

Nor that Miss Forrest, the most beautiful girl in the 
room, resented his presence there, alien though he was. 
(“The sun, whose beams most glorious are, rejecteth no 
beholder.'') For as, his farewells over, he made for the 
drawing-room door, she chanced to be standing near it, 
alone—or at any rate she was near it, alone. 

“I must bid you a long, a month's, farewell. Mademoi¬ 
selle," said the young man, with lightly feigned solemnity. 
But the words of the song wove themselves unut¬ 
tered about his own as he looked at her, though he hoped 
that that “sweet beauty past compare" did not cause his 
gaze to be too bold. “ Do not, I pray you, forget your kind 
promise to send me the romance of Doctor Johnson to make 
that month seem less long." 

To this, looking him in the face. Miss Juliana replied 
calmly: “I have been reflecting about Rasselas, M. des 
Sablieres. To-morrow afternoon I intend to come to North- 
over again, to take farewell of Miss Bentley. I will put 
the book in my pocket, just in case I should be wallang 
back, and should come across you—^should you, for in¬ 
stance, by any chance be fishing near Fawley Bridge, where 
I think I have heard you say that you do fish sometimes." 

The young Frenchman dropped his eyes, not to show his 
surprise. Did she know what she was doing? She seemed 
extraordinarily composed about it. And why was she do¬ 
ing it—she, “le Roi Soleil's" betrothed? But it was not 
for him to hesitate. 

“You are quite right. Mademoiselle," he replied without 
a perceptible pause. “Although it is off the highroad, I 
have a special license from Mr. Bannister to fish for a mile 
from the bridge. And as it happens"—he looked at her 
again, and his eyes were sparkling now—“I had already 
arranged with myself to go and fish there to-morrow after¬ 
noon, so that if by chance you should be taking that way 
back to Mulholland Park. . . ." He left the sentence 

unfinished, and added: “For I believe that path which 


‘^MR. ROWK’ GETS INTO TROUBLE 27 

mounts the steep field from the bridge goes to Mulholland 
Park, does it not?'" 

It does,” answered Miss Forrest, looking at the ca^et 
for a moment. "'It is a short cut.” She then added, in a 
highly negligent manner: "Tt is of course quite uncertain 
whether I shall return that way.” 

But Raoul des Sablieres, bending over her hand and mur¬ 
muring that he at least would be there, was conscious of a 
distinct hope that, whatever motive had prompted her to 
this unconventional suggestion, she would be able to carry it 
out. 

And when, rather out of breath, he reached Miss Hitch- 
ings's doorstep just as the first clang of the prisoners' curfew 
smote the air, it was evident that the smothered wrath to 
which he had promised himself to allow free play as he 
hurried towards the lights of Wanfield had occupied him but 
little, or his first action on opening the door would scarcely 
have been to tap the weatherglass in the little hall. 


CHAPTER III 

HOW JULIANA ASSERTED HER INDEPENDENCE 

Even the Happy Valley might be endured with such a companion.— 
Rasselas, chap. xiii. 

Mr. Rowl's unspoken petition had certainly been granted. 
The nineteenth of March was an even finer afternoon than 
its predecessor—a thought too fine, indeed, for a fisherman 
whose heart had been set wholly upon sport. (But then 
Mr. RowFs heart was not so set.) The stream sang as it 
rippled under the little stone bridge whose presence almost 
raised it to the status of a river, and the birds were singing 
too in the coppice that topped the meadow on the farther 
side and then flung down a tributary line of thicket almost 
to the water. And all over this thicket, and everywhere 
else, the green was breaking in varying degrees of eager¬ 
ness—a promise of what would reward the eye if one came 
again in a week or so. . . . 

The young man on the bridge at present, however, had his 
back turned to all this display, since, leaning his arms on 
the parapet, he was looking meditatively down at the 
water. His fishing rod rested against the same support, 
for M. des Sablieres had really been fishing conscientiously 
(though fruitlessly) in order to delude any one who might 
witness it (or possibly even himself) into the belief that this 
prearranged meeting with Miss Juliana Forrest was just a 
chance encounter. 

If Miss Forrest came, that was; for to-day she might 
think better of her design. Of course, the conventions were 
not quite so easily outraged for an English girl as for a 
vrei^h; he knew that. Besides, she might have her lawful 
escort vnth her, since it was not likely that Sir Francis 
would allow her to walk back from Northover unaccom¬ 
panied. In that case, did she intend to make the gentle- 
28 


JULIANA ASSERTS HER INDEPENDENCE 29 

man wait while she pointed out to a French prisoner her 
favourite passages in Rasselas? If so, having regard to his 
recent conversation with that prisoner, there might be in¬ 
teresting developments. 

More possibly she meant to come unescorted, which, if 
‘de Roi Soleir^ learnt afterwards of their open-air study of 
English, might lead to more interesting ones still. Almost 
undoubtedly for his own sake, just possibly for Miss For¬ 
rest's too, it would have been well to decline this encounter. 
But how could he put such an affront upon the lady who, 
whatever her motive, had been kind enough to propose it? 
Such a proceeding, especially after Sir Francis's attempt to 
read him a lesson, would have been of a prudence to make 
M. Raoul-Marie-Am^d^e des Sablieres blush all the rest of 
his life at the remembrance. 

If le gros Mulholland accompanied her—and Raoul 
really did not see how on this, her last afternoon at Wan- 
field, she could avoid his escort—dare he throw that 
gentleman into the stream, as, after yesterday's imperti¬ 
nence, he would so greatly enjoy doing? He dallied with 
the idea, leaning there on the bridge, knowing perfectly well 
that he could not do such a thing in Miss Forrest's presence. 
D’ailleurs, Sir Francis was much the bigger of the two. 
But what a souse he would make going in! The poor little 
river would be completely dammed by le gros Mulholland... 
unfortunately it was not deep enough to drown him. . . . 
It was all very well to indulge in these pleasant fancies, but 
what of his future relations with Sir Francis, quite apart 
from any possible complications which might be imported 
into them by this afternoon's interview with his ladylove, 
if he came to know of it? On one thing, however, he was 
determined—that he was not going to be bullied by him out 
of his footing at Northover. 

In the midst of these reflections he caught the sound of a 
light step approaching and turned eagerly. In another 
moment Miss Juliana Forrest came round the comer of 
the bend . . . and she was unaccompanied. 

Raoul swept off his hat and went to meet her at the end 
of the bridge. Miss Forrest wore a long close-fitting coat 
of cherry colour, edged all round and up the fronts with 
ermine, but from just below the bosom, where it was tied 


30 


‘‘MR. ROWL^' 


about with a ribbon, it fell a little apart, and showed her 
white cambric walking-dress. She was looking very charm¬ 
ing, the more so that her own colour was undoubtedly a 
trifle heightened. 

“Miss Forrest, as I live!^' exclaimed the young man. 
“What pleasant surprises Fate can give an unluckv fisher¬ 
man after all!'" 


Miss Juliana smiled, and coloured yet more at this dis¬ 
ingenuous address. “You have not caught anything this 
afternoon, then. Monsieur? I am sorry." 

“You have no cause to pity me. Mademoiselle," returned 
Raoul, looking at her and smiling too. He was still bare- 
headed; the breeze lifted his fine, dark, loosely curling hair, 
and the sunlight showed the laughter and vitality in his gray 
eyes with their rims of still darker gray. And suddenly 
Miss Forrest seemed to find the little bridge too bright a 
place to stand and talk with a young man, for she began to 
move across it. 

“Mademoiselle," said Raoul, moving with her, “you 
were going to point out to me the beauties of le docteur 
Johnson. But remember that I cannot accompany you 
up that path to the little wood. Only by the river may I 
dispc^ myself—and that solely by permission of the good 
Mr. Bannister." 

She hesitated and looked down the stream. It was clean 
out of her way. Raoul read her thoughts quite well. 

I have never been along that path," said the Honour¬ 
able Juliana. 


1 , would find it quite dry," observed Raoul, glancing at 

her thin footgear. ® 

^|Then I think I will take a turn there." 

And I may have the privilege of accompanving vou?" 
enquired Raoul. “ Since Monsieur le docteur comes t(X) " he 
glanced at the reticule upon her arm—“and I have my fish¬ 
ing rod, he added, laying hold of it. 

chaperons, therefore, 
they left the bridge and started along the little track by the 

Juliana's slen- 

? their kid half-boots. Under Raoul’s the grass 
swished ple^antly, and for a moment or two that was the 
only sound the couple made. 


JULIANA ASSERTS HER INDEPENDENCE 31 


Could Juliana Forrest herself have said what had caused 
her to do this thing? Hardly. Pique, a desire to show her 
betrothed that he could not dictate to her—a desire, in 
short, to read him a lesson? But it is of no use reading a 
person a lesson unless he is aware of the process, and Juliana, 
being conversant with Sir Francises movements this after¬ 
noon (which she had had no small share in determining) 
knew that he would not pass by Fawley Bridge. But she 
always had it in her power to tell him of what she had done, 
if she saw fit . . . since not for one moment did she 
regard this as a clandestine proceeding, to be hushed up. 
Miss Juliana Forrest did not condescend to behaviour of 
that sort; nor, certainly, had she been the least in the world 
in love with M. des Sablieres, or he with her, would she have 
suggested handing over Rasselas in this manner. M. des 
Sablidres was a friend, in whom she took a friend's interest 
and whom she might meet whenever it seemed good to 
her. 

So, after they had gone a short way, she opened her reti¬ 
cule and held out a small volume. 

“Ah, the famous book!" said Raoul, and read off the 
title: “‘Rasselas, Prince of Abyssinia.' II etait done 'prince, 
le heros du bon doctmr?” 

Miss Forrest assented, and Raoul tucked his rod under 
his arm the better to examine the book as they walked slowly 
along. 

“But he was a captive, then, in the hands of his enemies, 
this prince?" enquired the young Frenchman after a mo¬ 
ment. 

“A captive, but not in the hands of his enemies," replied 
Miss Forrest. And she explained how, according to the 
author, it was customary for the children of the royal race of 
Abyssinia to be confined in a delightful valley until they 
should succeed to the throne. 

Her hearer listened attentively, but he did not fail to mark 
at the same time the fineness of her profile, and the way her 
lashes lifted themselves after their downward sweep. How 
green the boughs were behind her head—^and how good the 
air smelt! 

“Well, this Rasselas cannot have had a pleasanter cap¬ 
tivity than mine," he observed at the end of this exposition. 


32 


‘^MR. ROWL^^ 


'^You are all too kind to me here, Mademoiselle." ‘‘All 
except le gros Mulholland," he added to himself. 

“Then I hope," said Juliana gently, “that you can 
sometimes forget your captivity." 

In the flash of an eye the mobile visage had changed. 

No, Mademoiselle, I never forget it," said the young hus¬ 
sar quite simply. 

“Yes, the restrictions are ridiculous," agreed Miss Forrest 
sympathetically. “What is one mile along the turnpike to 
a man? You must often long to walk in the fields. Ajid 
then that curfew. . . 

They were at a standstill now. “It is not those little 
things, said Raoul, shaking his head. “You, Mademoiselle, 
^11 understand me, I think, when I say that I did not put on 
the Fmperors uniform in order to use this"—he indicated 
his fishing rod. “Every day I become older, is it not, do¬ 
ing nothing. Eight months have gone by-" He 

broke off. & j 


^ .I^sht months," repeated Juliana, struck by his tone. 

Eight months since Salamanca, your last battle—and the 
mosttemble, perhaps?" 

And there by the stream she looked at him with new 
eyes, realizing that he was, after all, a soldier, and, amusing 
and accommodating though he might be, evidently had a 
^ life, with all its hazards. 

No, Mademoiselle,” he now replied, “not the most 
temple. Salarnanca, where I was taken prisoner, was the 
gr^test battle m which I had the honour of participating 
Alpuera, the year before, was more bloody.” 

+ 1 , exclaimed Juliana. “Was it not at Albuera 

that there was that temble cavalry charge which almost 
wiped out I forget how many of our regiments in a few 
minutes—or SO I have heard?" 

Raoul- “ There was a sudden violent hall¬ 
oa ■ which helped us.” And he added, looking 

away You must tiy not to hate me too much. Made- 
moiselle—^but I was m that charge." 

Juliana was not conscious of any violent aversion. “But 

I am sure that you, M. des Sablieres, were not one of the 

massacred our 

wounded! No, I forgot, of course you are not a lancer.” 


JULIANA ASSERTS HER INDEPENDENCE 33 


hope,” said the young man, with rather a wry smile, 
‘‘that is not the only ground on which you are sure of it?” 
Then he faced her squarely. “ To tell the truth. Mademoi¬ 
selle—and I am glad to be able to tell it—^it was not French 
troops at all who were guilty of that atrocious conduct. It 
was the Poles who had just charged, the Lancers of the 
Vistula. But I cannot deny, to my shame, that it oc¬ 
curred. I—I was able to intervene in the case of one officer, 
and I was fortunately successful; but the Lancers were be¬ 
side themselves, and it was not very easy. . . .” He 

broke off, looking meditative—back, Juliana could see, on 
the field of battle again. 

“Oh, M. des Sablieres,” she exclaimed, “how grateful 
that officer must have been to you! Did you know his 
name?” 

“We had no time to exchange cards. Mademoiselle,” said 
Raoul smiling. “He was, of course, made prisoner, and I 
did not see him again. I do not even know his regiment, 
except that it belonged to the brigade we had just charged. 
But do not let us talk of battles, since in doing so we must 
realize that we are enemies. . . .” 

“Must we?” asked Juliana with a smile. “Even here? 
—Do you know. Monsieur, that from every officer returned 
from Spain whom I have ever met—and I have met not a 
few—I have heard the same praises of—the enemy?” 

“Mademoiselle,” said Raoul bowing, '‘vous me rendez 
confus! May I say that that sentiment was not confined 
to one side? Yes, one exchanged courtesies—gifts some¬ 
times; one even had one's friendships with the foe.” 

“As in the times of chivalry!” said Miss Forrest with 
sparkling eyes. “When I read those wonderful poems of 
Walter Scott's—I wish I could lend you Marmion —I feel 
that if I had been bom a man I should like to go to the 
wars. But there must be much hardship as well as glory. 
Tell me, M. des Sablieres, how long had you been in Spain 
before your capture? ” 

“About a year and eight months,” replied Raoul. “I 
joined my regiment, the ^cond Hussars, at the end of 1810; 
it was part of the First Corps, Marshal Victor's, under 
Soult. And I was fortunate enough to be present at the 
battle of the Gebora, in Febmary, 1811. Perhaps you may 


34 


‘‘MR. ROWL'' 


not have heard of it''—^he permitted himself a rather mali¬ 
cious smile here—‘‘for it was an undisputed PYench victory 
—against the Spaniards, Men entendu. At the Gebora— 
it is a river. Mademoiselle—we destroyed the army of 
Estremadura, and then Badajoz surrendered to us. (Oh, 
yes, I know that you have stormed it since Salamanca, 
but we had held it against you for more than a year.) 
Then came Albuera, of which I have spoken; then Marshal 
Soult joined Marmont, and both armies lay for a fortnight 
on one side of the River Gaya, with Lord Wellington on the 
other. How I used to long for the attack!—but the day 
never came. At the Gaya I was transferred to the Third 
Hussars, which formed part of Gurto's Light Cavalry 
Division in Marmont's army, and being thenceforward 
with Marmont instead of with Soult, I came to be at 
Salamanca, and so—find myself here at Wanfield.” 

“ You were wounded at Salamanca, were you not?" asked 
Juliana. “I hope you received proper attention from our 
surgeons?" 

“I was very well cared for indeed, thank you. Ma¬ 
demoiselle. And my wound was not serious; I was lame for 
a little, that was all." 

“And how did you come to England? It could not, I 
fear, have been an agreeable voyage." 

M. des Sablieres's mouth tightened a little. “No. 
It was horrible. We were crammed on the transport like 
sheep, and battened down most of the time. But at any 
rate it came to an end; and the conditions could not be 
helped; you took so many prisoners, alas, at Salamanca. 
But I gained some idea of the horrible conditions—which 
you must pardon me for saying could be avoided—under 
which so many of the less fortunate of us are rotting in 
your hulks to-day." 

“ The hulks I" said Miss Forrest with a shiver. “ Do not 
let us speak of them. I have heard things ... no, 
too horrible! If they are true, they are a disgrace to us, to 
England!" 

Raoul, touched that she could feel for misfortunes which 
she h^ never witnessed, and which in any case were suf- 
tered by enemies, was about to say something of the kind 
when he became aware that a man was walking along the 


JULIANA ASSERTS HER INDEPENDENCE 35 

more frequented path on the opposite side of the stream, 
and that he was not unobservant of them. He looked 
across and saw the Comte de Sainte-Suzanne. 

Miss Juliana Forrest saw him too. For the second time 
since her coming her colour rose a little; for the second 
time she took an added beauty from it. She acknowledged 
the Comte^s salutation and Raoul did the same, unable to 
decide whether he could detect on his compatriot's face, 
across the width of the stream, an indication of the surprise 
which he was probably feeling. In silence they both 
watched him continue his path away from the bridge, and 
Raoul suddenly remembered that at the beginning of this 
interview he had half expected somebody else to break in 
upon it, and realized too how completely he had since for¬ 
gotten that anticipation. . . . As for Sainte-Suzanne, 

he was not the man to go gossiping. 

‘‘Tell me. Mademoiselle," he said, for the sake of saying 
something, for a shadow of constraint seemed to have fallen 
across them both, “does this Rasselas," he ^touched his 
pocket, “ever escape from his Happy Valley?" 

“Yes," replied Juliana, beginning to move in the direction 
of the bridge, “he makes a way out, and leaves it in the 
company of a sage and a lady.—But the lady is his sister," 
she added, with the suspicion of a smile. “Do not expect 
to find a romance of love in so edifying a work as Rasselas, 
If you want that you must ask Miss Bentley to lend you 
Richardson." 

“But surely M. le docteur Johnson could have rendered 
even a romance of love edifying?" protested the student. 
“Yet, perhaps, for purposes of escape a sister would be a 
more suitable companion. That is, some kinds of a sister ■ 
one like mine, for instance." 

“Ah, you have a sister. Monsieur?" 

“Yes, Mademoiselle —au plus haul degre meme, I mean 
that I have a twin sister." 

Miss Forrest was much interested; she had never met a 
twin, and said so. “Does your sister resemble you very 
much?" . 

“Not so much, perhaps, as one pea another in the 
same pod, which I believe is expected of twins," answered 
Raoul, laughing, “but we have changed clothes, Adrienne 


36 


‘^MR. ROWL^^ 


and I, in our younger and wilder days, and no one been 
much the wiser/' He smiled as at some reminiscence, 
and Juliana knew that he was thinking of his home. Pres¬ 
ently, indeed, he began to speak of it a little: of his father, 
who was old, and old-fashioned in his ideas, not moving 
with the times but regretting the past—^‘yet a better father 
no one could have, Mademoiselle"; of his mother, loved by 
everyone who came near her, *^and not least by me, as you 
can imagine. ... I have not seen her for nearly two 
and a half years," he went on. ^‘1 had leave from Spain 
once, in the winter, but there was not time to get farther 
than Bayonne^and we live in the Orl^anais! My little 
mother was ailing; she could not undertake the journey; my 
father was anxious, and stayed with her. It was a great 
disappointment. But Adrienne came; she travelled all by 
herself across two thirds of France, in the snow; the diligence 
broke down too, at Dax, but it would take more than that to 
stop her. So we met in Bayonne, on the jour des Rois, 
and were very happy—for twenty-four hours." 

^ They w;alked on in silence after that. Miss Forrest think¬ 
ing how simple and modest he was under his lively exterior 
—this terrible Frenchman who had not made the slightest 
attempt to take advantage of her rashness—which proved 
that she had not been rash! So it was a great thing to 
him to meet his sister; but she could not help wondering a 
little whether there were not any other lady whom he 
W 9 uld have liked to meet as well in Bayonne, on Twelfth 
Night. . . . 

The bridge was nearly reached again when she said sud- 
^ going away to-morrow, may I ask you 
what I fear may sound an impertinent question?" 

^ 'Tray ask me anything. Mademoiselle. It could not be 
impertinent. 


T ™ ““'i for some time,” confessed 

Juliana, looking down and playing with her reticule. ''And 
^w, the sight of old M. de Sainte-Suzanne has revived it 
How IS It, M des Sablieres, that you, a gentleman of a 
family no doubt as old as his, find yourself. . . 

Find myself an officer of the Emperor’s?” completed 
Raoul as she hesitated. “Mademoiselle, if when you say 
find yourself,’ you think that it was due to an accident or 


JULIANA ASSERTS HER INDEPENDENCE 37 

to necessity, I must tell you that it was not Fate but my 
own choice which has made me serve the greatest soldier 
that even France has produced. And I am not singular in 
that. He has many better-known names than mine on his 
rosters.'’ 

But when the choice has made you—^though surely with¬ 
out your recognizing it or willing it—the enemy of your own 
class, your own traditions, your own King?" 

Raoul looked intently at her. It was a strange coinci¬ 
dence to be taken to task for this delinquency two days 
running. Yet it was flattering that this young English lady 
should be sufficiently interested in him to demand an ex¬ 
planation when the action evidently caused her some em¬ 
barrassment. 

He tried to explain his position. They were at the 
bridge again by the time he had finished. 

France is young, Mademoiselle," he urged in conclusion, 
always young, although she is so old! There is sap in 
her veins, ever springing up. And it comes up, up from 
the root. My family is not a newcomer—not a graft on 
that tree; the new sap runs through it also. Now M. de 
Sainte-Suzanne, though I respect him deeply for what he 
has suffered, I cannot but think of him and his fellows as 
dead boughs—dropped off. The Bourbons too—a withered 
branch; France does not need them any more. It is sad. I 
regret it—though less than my parents regret it, yet more 
than my sons will regret it when their time comes. Tmt 
tombe, tout pousse a jamais; c'est la loi de la jorH,” 

‘"Yes," said the girl thoughtfully. understand a 
little better. You forgive the question, I hope. . . . 
And now, I must go on my way." 

She held out her hand. Raoul des Sablieres kissed it. 
‘"You have been, in everything, too good, Mademoiselle. 
I shall, I promise you, read every word of Rasselas with the 
care it deserves. I wish you an agreeable journey to¬ 
morrow." 

‘'The best I could wish you. Monsieur des Sablieres," 
said Juliana, looking at him with great kindness, " is that 
on my return I should find you gone on a journey across the 
Channel! But I suppose there is small chance of that?" 

Raoul shook his head with a smile. "Yet there are 


38 


‘^MR. ROWL" 


consolations in every lot. I shall be able to restore your 
book to you.” 

He assisted her over the stile, and watched her progress 
up the sloping meadow path, where he might not ac¬ 
company her. When the cherry-colour and ermine had 
vanished over the brow he returned to the bridge and started 
to^ take his rod to pieces. But he had hardly got the first 
joints apart when he heard a faint scream from the direction 
of the meadow. Raoul did not wait for its repetition, but, 
dropping his rod, vaulted over the stile and ran up the path 
like a hare. 

The cry came again as he ran, and joined to it his own 
name.^ ''Je viens! je viens!” he called out, and biu-st into 
the thicket to find a rough-looking man struggling with Miss 
Juliana Forrest for the possession of her reticule. 


CHAPTER IV 

“FORTUNE FAVOURS THE-” 


“Your ignorance was merely accidental, which, being neither your 
crime nor your folly, could afford them no reason to applaud them¬ 
selves; and the knowledge which they had . . . they might as 

effectually have shown by warning as betraying you.**—Rasselas, chap, 
ix. 


All this while Sir Francis Mulholland was returning to¬ 
wards his mansion and his betrothed in no sunny frame of 
mind. And he undoubtedly had a grievance, for Juliana, 
on this, the last afternoon of her stay, had absurdly insisted 
on going yet again to Northover to take a final and soli¬ 
tary farewell of her dear Laetitia. After yesterday's 
scene, and the ominous words with which it had concluded, 
the lover thought it better to affect complaisance. He 
obtained the privilege of at least escorting his lady to Mr. 
Bentley's door, though he was not allowed to enter, nor to 
wait, nor to call for her, being given to imderstand that the 
exact moment of her return was uncertain, and that Mr. 
Bentley and Laetitia would perhaps walk back with her. 
He coifid occupy himself, he was told, by going on to 
Stoneleigh to see the horse for sale there, as he had several 
times said he was anxious to do. 

Not too enthusiastically. Sir Francis had agreed to this, 
and was even now returning from a long interview with the 
quadruped in question. His shortest way home from Stone¬ 
leigh lay by the turnpike road, and by the turnpike alone 
he would have proceeded thither, had he not fallen in at the 
crossroads with Mr. Ramage riding, or at least sitting on 
his old flea-bitten cob taking his usual afternoon's airing. 
J^d Mr. Ramage had implored him to accompany him a 
little on his own homeward path, which, though it lay at an 
angle to the coach road, would not take Sir Francis very 
much out of his way if the latter continued by the short cut 
39 


40 


‘‘MR. ROWL’' 


over Fawley Bridge. It appeared that Mr. Ramage had 
something about which he wished to consult him. 

So Sir Francis consented, and all the way down the lane 
Mr. Ramage confided to him his suspicions that Morris the 
tallow chandler^s prisoner had a habit of leaving his lodgings 
before six o'clock in the morning (which was strictly against 
regulations) and his own conjectures as to why he so left 
them. ... It could not be to find mushrooms in 
March. “Tell Bannister about it, then," counselled Sir 
Francis, rather bored. “That is what he is here for, to 
keep an eye on the prisoners." Mr. Ramage retorted that 
he greatly feared one, at least, of Mr. Bannister's eyes was 
a blind eye; but that he himself was certainly going to do 
his duty and warn him about the suspected activities of 
Zachary Miller, whom this very afternoon the speaker had 
seen with his own unobscured vision, sitting in his pedlar's 
cart talking to two of the French prisoners near Four Oaks 
Farm. Why? 

But Sir Francis Mulholland, beginning to regret his yes¬ 
terday's interview with this zealous gentleman, concealed 
a yawn, and, having come to a convenient point, bade the 
suspect-hunter farewell, and resumed his solitary course and 
his ruminations about Juliana. 

In his own fashion he loved her, and he prized her even 
more than he loved. And the more valuable an object the 
more acute is one[s apprehension of loss. He was incon¬ 
sistent, no doubt, in his violent and at times all-embracing 
jealousy, for he had far too good an opinion of Sir hYancis 
Mulholland to imagine that his destined wife could prefer 
another to him—least of all this foreign Other whom he 
had made his latest subject of torment. Lord Fulgrave's 
daughter was not in the least likely to fall in love with a 
penniless if good-looking French prisoner. But it enraged 
him that she should even allow the Frenchman to talk to 
her, while to have the audacity to confess that she found 
pleasure in his conversation, and to refuse to abandon the 
acquaintanceship. . . ! Acquaintanceship, indeed! It 
was more than that! What of those damned theatricals 
last month, with that cursed foreigner in a petticoat and 
shawl, sheltered by Juliana, the wood-cutter's daughter, in 

her cottage, and then turning out to be a man after all . . . 


FORTUNE FAVOURS THE- 


41 

some ridiculous romantic farrago it was, everybody with 
a name ending in o or a; its only merit that at least the 
petticoated young man was not the titular hero, and did 
not make love to Juliana, a proceeding which was very 
stiffly gone through by that nincompoop Elwell, of whom 
not even Sir Francis could be jealous. . . . And that 
ball at Wanfield Assembly Rooms in January, shortly after 
their betrothal, at which, for the first and only time, des 
Sablieres had appeared in his dashing hussar's uniform, 
confound him, and had danced twice with Juliana, confound 
him still more—because it was useless to deny that the sil¬ 
ver-gray and scarlet set off his looks and figure to great 
advantage, and one knew what women were about regi¬ 
mentals, and Sir Francis had overheard plenty of apprecia¬ 
tive comments that night from some of the ladies . . . 
if not from Juliana. 

Damn it all, was there no way of getting rid of that 
hussar fellow while Juliana was away? His attempt to 
put a spoke in his wheel yesterday evening had been worse 
than a failure. If only he could use a little quiet influence 
to get him transferred to one of the other parole towns! 
But that, preeminently the wisest course, was also pre- 
erninently the most difficult, because des Sablieres never 
misconducted himself, and Bannister, the agent, had a 
strong regard for him and would never lend himself to 
intrigue against a well-behaved member of his not always 
amenable flock. 

But, though as yet he knew it not. Sir Francis was under 
the guidance that afternoon of some tutelary spirit. By 
sending Mr. Ramage across his path this daemon (good 
or bad) had withdrawn him from the highroad, and forced 
him to take the route by Fawley Bridge and the short cut 
up the meadow to Fawley Copse. Not content with guid¬ 
ing his steps, it had also timed them to the best advantage. 
Yet even when Sir Francis saw a partially disjointed fishing 
rod lying by the parapet of the bridge he was not aware of 
this; he merely wondered who could have left it there. 

When he was halfway up the sloping path, however, he 
saw a man come out of the copse. As there was a right of 
way through it the sight did not surprise him. But in an¬ 
other moment his pulses gave a leap. Surely that was 


42 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


des Sablieres himself who was coming so unconcernedly 
towards him! It was, it was—Bannister's model prisoner, 
outof bounds at last! What luck . . . what’unbeliev¬ 
able good luck! 

Des Sablieres' head was bent, for he was twisting a 
handkerchief round the knuckles of one hand, and so he 
did not at first see who was approaching him. But when 
he raised his head and did see, it was obvious, to Sir Fran¬ 
cis's gratification, that he was by no means pleased. 

''Good afternoon, M. des Sablieres," said the English¬ 
man, grimly polite. "So your fishing license has been ex¬ 
tended to cover Fawley Copse! I hope you had good sport 
there?" 

The offender met his gaze quite boldly. He did not look 
at all ashamed of himself, but rather hot and imtidy, and 
his neckcloth was disarranged. 

"I know that I am, strictly speaking, out of bounds," he 
replied coldly. "But I assme you that I had an excellent 
reason for it." And, stepping off the path, he passed his 
enemy. 

But he was not going to get away so easily! Sir Francis 
turned round after him. "Then I should like to hear that 
reason. Sir." 

The Frenchman slackened his pace, but did not stop 
entirely. "It does not concern you. Sir hYancis Mulhol- 
land," he observed over his shoulder. 

"Ah, but I think you will find that it does! You for¬ 
get, perhaps, that I am a justice of the peace, M. des 
Sablieres!" 

This time des Sablieres did stop, and faced round. "No, 
I know it quite well," he retorted. " But that fact does not 
j'ustify you in questioning me. If I have to give an explana¬ 
tion I shall give it to the proper person. I wish you good 
afternoon." And, turning on his heel, he resumed his 
progress down the slope. 

Sir Francis watched him go. "Yes, you will be asked for 
that explanation, my fine fellow," he said under his breath, 
exhilarated by his good fortune. "And, by George, I 
think you will find it devilish hard to give!" 

Turning on that very quickly, as one struck by a brilliant 
idea, he ran up the rest of the slope, plunged into the 


^‘FORTUNE FAVOURS THE- 


43 


copse, and searched it from end to end. But there was no 
one there, least of all Mr. Zachary Miller, whom he was 
hoping that some further grace of the gods would enable' 
him to find. Nevertheless, some half hour later Sir Francis 
was back in Wanfield and entering the private residence 
of Mr. James Bannister, the agent responsible to the 
Transport Office for the prisoners of war on parole in that 
place. 

Raoul meanwhile had gone straight home with his fishing 
rod to his little room off the High Street, imder the roof of 
Miss Eliza Hitchings, that acidulous-looking female, of whose 
cold eye he mendaciously declared himself to be in perpetual 
terror. This apartment was not a palace, and he was with¬ 
out the means to render it more attractive (for which he 
consoled himself by the reflection that he would not have 
dared to do so if he could). He had at present nothing but 
the weekly sum allowed by the British Government to officer 
prisoners of war, because, on its recent augmentation from 
ten and silence to fourteen shillings, he had promptly 
forbidden his family to send him any more remittances, as 
he was now living in affluence—which was far from being 
true. But though, when in straits, he would sooner cut 
down the expenses of his commissariat than endanger the 
irreproachableness of his outward appearance, and would 
tell Miss Hitchings that such and such a purchase need 
not be made that week, only hoping that the good lady 
would not guess the reason. Miss Hitchings of the unsmiling 
countenance had much better ground, on her side, for being 
sure that ''Mr. RowT' had not the faintest suspicion of how 
many loaves of bread and pats of butter he was never 
charged for at all. 

It was not often that "Mr. Rowl,'' being popular, returned 
home before he was obliged to do so by his parole regula¬ 
tions, which, in the present month of March, demanded 
that he should be indoors by seven, as the Comte de 
Sainte-Suzanne had reminded him yesterday. From May 
till June he was looking forward to being free till nine; 
the three winter months, however, had seen him driven to 
his fireside by five o'clock. So Miss Hitchings was a little 
surprised when she heard him come in now, the clock mark- 


44 


ROWL'' 


ing only a quarter past five; and by the fact that he did not 
run upstairs as he usually did. 

Raoul was in fact rather worried as he mounted that 
narrow staircase and came into his ugly little room. What 
devil of ill luck had sent Sir Francis up the path just at that 
moment? As far as Raoul himself was concerned, it would 
have been less damning if Mulholland had come on him a 
few minutes earlier by the bridge, conversing though he 
were with Miss Forrest; the Englishman might have dis¬ 
liked that, but he could not urge it against him as a crime. 
On his way home the prisoner had in fact debated whether 
he should not do well to go and inform Mr. Bannister that 
he had for a short space gone out of bounds, and why. 
Bannister would believe and absolve him, he felt sure. 
For the matter of that. Sir Francis must have absolved him, 
too, if he had told him the reason. Perhaps he had been 
foolish to give him no inkling of it, since indeed Mulholland, 
far from blaming him, ought in the circumstances to be 
deeply grateful. Raoul did not, however, feel sure that he 
would, exactly, for he had an intuition that Miss Forest had 
somehow manipulated circumstances — in other words, her 
betrothed— ^in order to return alone by Fawley Bridge. At 
the moment, with no time to spend on weighing pros and 
cons, it had seemed natural to cover Miss Forrest^s traces. 
Sir Francis would probably hear soon enough what had 
happened in Fawley Copse. 

He might even have come on the tramp or poacher or 
whatever he was, though to be sure the latter had vanished 
very quickly indeed after he had picked himself up. . . . 

Proceedings, it was true, had opened with a somewhat 
scrambling corps a corps encounter after Raoul had tom 
hirn away from Miss Forrest, but the end had been more in 
style, though he himself had broken his knuckles over 
it. . . . Miss Forrest had been shaking so much when 
it was over that he had been obliged to support her to a tree 
stump, on which she had sunk down, while he knelt beside 
r ^ —it was the only treatment he could 

think 01 ^vath his hat. And really she had looked almost 
more beautiful when she was as white as a lily. But she 
was never near swooning, he thought, except, perhaps, just 
lor the first second or two after he had disposed of her as- 


^‘FORTUNE FAVOURS THE-’’ 


45 


sailant—^that first second or two in which she had clung to 
him . . . moments which, neither at the time nor in 
retrospect, were at all disagreeable ones. . . . 

In the end he had escorted her to the boundary of the 
Mulholland domain. And just before they parted she had 
said, in a voice full of emotion, ^^Will you . . . would 
you care to ... to keep my little Rasselas for your 
own ... in memory of my undying gratitude? 

So Miss Forrest's book was now his, a memento of an 
episode which would have been wholly pleasurable to con¬ 
template if it had not been for the encounter with Mul¬ 
holland—on top of yesterday's, too! But Raoul now put 
Sir F^ncis resolutely from his mind, and, ensconcing him¬ 
self in his one fairly comfortable chair, took out the book in 
question from his pocket. By the absence of any sounds 
from the room above, where lodged another prisoner, a 
naval lieutenant named Lamotte, he surmised that the 
latter was not home yet. He had invited him to partake 
that evening of a hare recently presented to him, which, 
as its arrival almost coincided (of course, unknown to the 
British donor) with the second anniversary of the birth of 
the little ^ng of Rome, would be treated as a commemora¬ 
tive feast on the eve of the event, combining in one both 
dinner and supper. It was a pity that Miss Hitchings had 
insisted on cooking the animal to-night, on the ground that 
it would keep no longer, for the birthday was not till to¬ 
morrow. 

As every well-conducted reader should, Raoul began at 
the first page; and the stately and beautifully rounded ex¬ 
ordium impressed him as much as Miss Forrest herself 
could have desired. '‘Ye who listen with credulity to the 
whispers of fancy, and pursue with eagerness the phantoms 
of hope; who expect that age will perform the promises of 
youth, and that the deficiencies of the present day will be 
supplied by the morrow, attend to the history of Rasselas, 
Prince of Abyssinia." And soon he was reading of the 
delights of that blissful place of captivity, the Happy 
Valley, with its remarkable floral and zoological riches, 
and the even more remarkable juxtaposition of the latter, 
since "on one part were flocks and herds feeding in the 
pastures, on another all the beasts of the chase frisking on 


46 


‘^MR. ROWL’^ 


the lawns; the sprightly kid was bounding on the rocks, the 
subtle monkey frolicking in the trees, and the solemn ele¬ 
phant reposing in the shade/' A momentary reflection 
that the Happy Valley must have been rather like the Jardin 
des Plantes in Paris, and the student, struck with the jus¬ 
tice of these last epithets, repeated them seveml times to 
himself. Then he went on to read of the human inhabit¬ 
ants, who wandered in gardens of fragrance and slept in 
the fortresses of security," and by six o'clock had reached 
the passage in the fourth chapter where Rasselas, carried 
away by a day-dream of that outer world which he has 
never seen, actually pursues the imaginary robber of an 
imaginary damsel whom he pictures as appealing to him for 
help, until he is brought up short by the foot of the im¬ 
passable mountain hemming in the Happy Valley. 

‘'Here he recollected himself, and smiled at his own 
impetuosity. Then, raising his eyes to the mountain, 
'This,'said he, ‘is the fatal obstacle that hinders at once 
the enjoyment of pleasure and the exercise of virtue. How 
long is it that my hopes and wishes have flown beyond this 
boundary of my life which yet I have never attempted to 
surmount!'" 

The incident, in more ways than one, had sufficiently 
close a resemblance with what had happened to Miss For¬ 
rest and himself in Fawley Copse that afternoon to make 
“Mr. Rowl" lay down the book and smile. But the smile 
had a spice of melancholy. In his situation, just as much as 
m that of Doctor Johnson's hero, was “a fatal obstacle that 
hinders at once the enjoyment of pleasure and the exercise 
—his parole. And it was more insurmountable 
than Rasselas's mountain. No doubt he was fortunate 
that his military rank entitled him to the indulgence, but, 
nevertheless, comparative ease and pleasant society had to 
be paid for—in the same coin in which Rasselas paid. Wan- 
field was rather like the Happy Valley! 

Upon this reflection the door opened, and Miss Hitch- 
observed in a somewhat minatory manner: 

Mr. Bannister to see you. Sir!" 

^ The reader jumped up, as there entered the retired chem¬ 
ist who was his very good friend and custodian. 

I was thinking about you. Sir!" exclaimed Raoul. “ If I 


FORTUNE FAVOURS THE-” 47 

had not been sure that you would have left your office, I 
think I should have paid you a visit this afternoon/' 

‘‘Well, you see that I am paying you one," returned Mr. 
James Bannister rather heavily, as he took a chair. “And I 
wish I had not to; but I did it rather than send for you. I 
expect you know what I have come about. You are the 
last man I thought I should have trouble with on such a 
score." 

Raoul stood looking down on him with a slightly height¬ 
ened colour. “You wish to know why I was out of bounds 
this afternoon? On my honour, Mr. Bannister, I could not 
avoid it. I had to go—as you will acknowledge when you hear 
of the circumstances. But first, who told you of my crime?" 

“You can guess, I should think. Sir Francis Mulhol- 
land." 

Raoul made a face. “ He has not lost much time! Well, 
I suppose he was able to tell himself that he was doing his 
duty. But as it was on account of a person in whom he is 
deeply interested that I had to transgress, his zeal is a little 
misplaced." 

“What do you mean—^what person? Sir Francis said 
nothing-" began the Agent. 

“No, no, I told him nothing. The sheep reserves the tale 
of its misdemeanours for its own shepherd," announced 
Raoul cheerfully, bestowing a smile on the gentleman in 
question, and sitting down on the arm of a chair. “ Voyons 
done. . . ." And he proceeded with his tale—a strictly 
truthful narrative in all but its suppression of Miss Forrest's 
previous whereabouts. 

By the end of this recital Raoul's shepherd looked de¬ 
cidedly relieved. “No, my dear fellow, you certainly 
could not have done anything else. But why the deuce 
didn't you tell Sir Francis about Miss Forrest? " 

“Because he had no right to demand an explanation of 
me," replied the champion. “I said that to the right 
person I would give one, if necessary." 

“But you see, you hothead, if you had done it there and 
then he would not have lodged information against you for 
breaking your parole!" 

“Breaking my parole!" exclaimed the young soldier, 
indignantly. “How dare he suggest . . . But I 


48 ' ‘‘MR. ROWL^*' j 

suppose I was breaking it—in a sense!'" he finished in some 
dismay. 

Mr. Bannister laughed. “Technically, perhaps, but 
certainly not in the spirit, if that is all you went out of 
bounds for.'^ 

“I hope you do not think it was for any other reason, 
Mr. Bannister?'' rejoined Raoul rather gravely. 

“No, no, I take your word for it without reservation," 
said the Agent. “But Sir Francis, who does not know you 
as well as I do-" 

‘‘Yes?" enquired Raoul, with an odd light in his eyes. 

^ “ Sir Francis suspects—^now pray don't run away with the 
idea that I suspect it—he imagines that you had gone into 
Fawley Copse to meet some escape agent or other." 

Raoul gave a short, angry laugh. “He has an imagina¬ 
tion, that one! Certainly I had a meeting with a man in 
the copse . . . and I think he will remember the fact, 
but not pleasantly. I myself also." He showed his grazed 
knuckles. 

Mr. Bannister got up. “ Well, I am only too glad that 
you can give me such a satisfactory explanation. And as 
Sir Francis must by now have received from the lady con¬ 
cerned her account of your chivalrous conduct, I hope we 
may think of the incident as closed. But till he formally 
mthdraws his charge—^which, as he is a magistrate, I am 
bound to take rather seriously—you would make things 
eaper for me if you would engage not to leave your rooms 
till I tell you that you are free to do so." 

“But with pleasure," agreed Raoul. “I will constitute 
myself the prisoner of Miss Hitchings." 

“I will see Sir Francis and get the matter cleared up with 
him—to-morrow morning if possible. You have taken a 
weight off my mind, des Sablieres. I have so much to try 
me, one way and another, between your countrymen and 
my own. But I have always felt that you were one of 
^ could fully trust," concluded Mr. Bannister, 
thank you, said his charge. “I shall try always to 
deserve that opinion." They shook hands, and the Agent 
departed, leaving the young Frenchman to reflect with in¬ 
dication upon Sir Francis's action. He saw his game 
quite well: he had seized on this opportunity to do him an 


“FORTUNE FAVOURS THE 


49 


injury because—as yesterday^s collision had made abun¬ 
dantly plain—he resented his presence in Wanfield society. 
However, when he knew the truth he would find this weapon 
broken in his hand. Moreover, as RaouFs own conscience 
was clear, and the Agent did not—could not—regard the 
matter seriously, there was nothing that need cloud his and 
Lieutenant Lamotte’s enjoyment of the commemorative 
hare, upon which they very cheerfully supped, nor of their 
game of cards afterwards, in which Raoul lost with equal 
cheerfulness (since to-morrow was pay-day) the whole of 
his remaining weekly income, namely, one shilling sterling. 
And his mimicry of an imaginary scene in which he, Raoul, 
went on his knees to Sir Francis Mulholland to beseech 
him to sing “Rule, Britannia,'' and Sir Francis condescend¬ 
ingly sang it—out of tune—^while the Francophobe Mr. 
Ramage played the accompaniment at sight, reduced 
Lieutenant Lamotte to such helpless laughter, and Miss 
Hitchings's old spinet to such a condition of discord, that 
Miss Hitchings herself appeared, to deprecate the holding 
up of that patriotic air to ridicule lest the neighbours should 
hear; and had to be calmed by Raoul's assuring her, with 
his hand on his heart, that no disrespect was intended to 
the majestic lady who rose from out the azure main, only to 
those who murdered so fine a song. But he did not tell 
Lieutenant Lamotte why he had selected Sir Francis Mul¬ 
holland as the murderer. 


CHAPTER V 
“ BROKE-PAROLE! ” 


"The suddenness of the event struck me with surprise, and I was at 
iirst rather stupefied than agitated.”— Rasselas, chap, xxxviii. 

Shall you be going out this morning, Mr. Rowl?'' en¬ 
quired Miss Hitchings of her lodger not long after breakfast 
next morning. 

. J- expect so,” responded Raoul rather vaguely, not 
raising his head from Rasselas. 

then. Sir, if I may make so bold?” 

TOat time?” repeated the young man. ‘"Oh, about— 
no, truly, I cannot tell you just when. Does that incon¬ 
venience you, Miss Hitchings?” 

Not in the least. Sir,” responded Miss Hitchings, in a 
tone signifying exactly the opposite. I suppose that one 
more day for the carpet to lie there, so full of dust as it is, 
don t signify.” ’ 

*‘Mon Dieu, were you going to take the carpet up?” cried 
Raoul, with every symptom of alarm. ^Hs it one of those 
days when everything is dessus dessous—one of the days of 
tornado. I am desolated, chere Miss Hitchings, for trulv I 

cannot tell you when I shall be able to-1 mean,” he pulled 

himself up firmly, *Vhen it will suit me to go out.” 

For he was not going to confess to her that he was a 
pnsoner m the house, though he had mentioned the fact to 
Lamotte over the hare the night before, adding that his 
confinement need not be taken very seriously. 

Indeed, he hoped that it would not be long now before Mr 
Hanmster sent word that he was at liberty. Time to read 
some more Rasselas though, as the book was now his 
?i!^i leisure for that pursuit. And to 

think that Miss Forrest had not shown him her favourite 
passages yesterday, after all! They had been too much 
50 


BROKE-PAROLE! 


51 


immersed in conversation, he and she. As he returned to 
his reading he recalled the look in her beautiful eyes up in 
the copse—that thrilling look of deep, deep gratitude and 
admiration. . . . 

del! it was already half-past eleven, and still no word 
from Mr. Bannister! Perhaps he had not been able to get 
hold of Sir Francis. Raoul rose, and sat himself down at 
the table with pen and paper and began a letter home—one 
of those letters whose composition never failed to irritate 
him a little, for one reason because it was so difficult to 
find anything new to say, for another, because no letter was 
private. To-day he was writing to his sister. 

**Ma cMre Adrienne: As-tu pense d moi hier, car fai un peu 
parle de toi? Ahy si tu etais id, je m*ennuierais moins; nous 
attrapperions des truites ensemble, comme autrefois. Nous 
lirions aussi le chef-d’oeuvre du ceUhre docteur Johnson, VHis- 
toire de Rasselas, que je suis en train d’etudier pour perfec- 
tionner mon anglais. . . Mais un jour, sans doute, nous 

le lirons ensemble, car on m’a fait cadeau du volume.” 

He broke off to mend his pen, beginning softly to whistle. 
Since First I Saw Your Face'' while he did so. And before 
he had finished he was singing the second verse under his 
breath: 

‘"'The sun, whose beams most glorious are, 
Rejecteth no beholder; 

And your sweet beauty, past compare. 

Made my poor eyes the bolder. 

When beauty moves, and wit delights. 

And signs of kindness bind me. 

There, oh, there, where'er I go. 

I'll leave my heart behind me.' 

Ah non! je suis trop prudent pour celd!” he observed aloud, 
shaking his head. . . . Yet if he were not poor, and an 

enemy, and a forei^er, and a prisoner . . . and Miss 

Forrest were not rich, and English, and affianced to ^Te 
Roi Soleil" . . . but in the existing circumstances 
(though he admired her and was grateful to her for her 


52 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


friendly kindness) there was no use in contemplating im¬ 
possibilities. He returned to his letter. 

*‘Pour le restej rien de neuf. Je suis, comme toujmirs, en 
bonne sante^ mais^ aussi, comme toujours, fixe id, aussi im~ 
muable qu’une epee rouillee dans son fourreau, ou une statue 
dans sa niche, fige comme du lait caille - 

“Mr. Bannister has sent word to say would you kindly 
go round to his office at once, Mr. Rowl/’ came the voice 
of Miss Hitchings. 

“With all my heart!"' exclaimed Raoul, springing up. 
“In fact, I fly.'’ He hastily put aside his unfinished letter, 
snatched up his hat, cried, at sight of the bandanna tied 
round his landlady's head and the broom in her hand: 
“Now you can do your worst in here, Britannia!" and went 
down the stairs two at a time. 

Mr. Bannister's office was full in the High Street, and a 
very short distance away. Yet by the time that Raoul 
reached its respectable columned entrance he had already 
wondered why the Agent had required him to come there 
instead of merely sending him a line of release. Perhaps he 
had been too busy to put pen to paper. 

Raoul knew the office well, since he had to go there to 
report himself twice a week, and to draw his allowance on 
Saturdays. He came briskly round the bookcase which 
stood at right angles to the door, making a kind of screen, 
and said, “Here I am. Sir." Then he perceived that the 
Agent was not alone, and that the tall man in riding cos¬ 
tume, standing with his back to the room, looking out of 
the window, was Sir Francis Mulholland. He stopped, dis¬ 
pleased. 

Mr. Bannister himself was standing by his writing table, 
not far from the same window, turning over some papers in 
a perfunctory fashion. He was looking so grave that Raoul 
felt suddenly apprehensive. Had anything gone wrong 
but nothing could! 

''I have sent for you, M. des Sablieres," said the Agent 
and his voice was not the voice of yesterday, “so that you 
can in person repeat your explanation of your action in 
going out of bounds yesterday afternoon." 


‘‘BROKE-PAROLE!’^ 


53 


Raoul stared at him. “Why should I repeat it, Sir? I 
have nothing to add or to take away from what I have al¬ 
ready told you.” 

“Because I should like Sir Francis Mulholland,” said 
Mr. Bannister, glancing for a second at the back of that 
gentleman, who had not turned round, “to have an op¬ 
portunity of hearing it from your own lips. It is only 
fair.” 

“Fair!” repeated Raoul rather stormily. “Fair to 
whom? And what has Sir Francis to do with the matter—• 
beyond having denounced me to you? I should have 
thought that even a magistrate might have been satisfied 
with that!” 

“M. des Sablieres, I beg of you-” 

“ Oh, I am not saying that he exceeded his duty. But he 
certainly exceeds his rights in being here in the capacity of a 
judge—and I refuse to recognize him as one.” 

At that Sir Francis turned round and faced the young 
Frenchman. 

“I am not here. Sir, as it happens, in the capacity of a 
judge,” he remarked coolly. ‘‘ I have not the slightest de¬ 
sire to encroach on Mr. Bannister’s province. I am here, 
as any man might be, in the role of a witness.” 

‘‘Unnecessary, Sir,’’saidRaoul sharply. ‘‘Mr.Bannister 
knows that I instantly acknowledged having been for a 
short space out of bounds yesterday.” 

“ I did not mean as a witness to that physical fact,” replied 
Sir Francis imperturbably. “It would certainly be of 
small use your denying that!” 

“Sir Francis means, I am sorry to say,” interposed Ban¬ 
nister, looking more and more distressed, “as a witness to 
the truth of your explanation of the fact.” 

“No, no, Bannister!” Sir Francis gave a short laugh. 
“As a witness to its falsehood, if you please!” And as 
Raoul stared at him, momentarily bereft of speech, he ad¬ 
dressed him directly. “Now listen, des Sablieres, and 
correct me if I misrepresent what you told Mr. Bannister 
yesterday. You asserted that at half-past four Miss 
Forrest passed you at Fawley Bridge, where you were fish¬ 
ing, that immediately afterwards you heard a scream, 
rushed up the field to the copse, found that a vagabond was 



54 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


attacking her, and beat him off. Is not that what you 
asserted to Mr. Bannister? 

^^It is.^^ 

‘‘Then let me tell you, as I have already told your Agent, 
that your ‘explanation" is a tissue of lies. No vagabond or 
any one else could have attacked Miss Forrest in Fawley 
Copse at half-past four o"clock, just before I met you, be¬ 
cause Miss Forrest was not there to be attacked."" 

“Not there—Miss Forrest not there!"" stammered 
Raoul, thinking he had not heard aright. 

“Miss Forrest returned from Northover yesterday after¬ 
noon by the turnpike road, reaching Mulholland Park at 
four o"clock. She did not go out again. It is therefore im¬ 
possible that she should have passed you at the bridge or 
been in Fawley Copse, and the using of her name in this 
unwairantable fashion to cloak whatever you were doing 
there is very far, let me assure you, from being of assistance 
to you!"" 

For the first moment or two Raoul was so staggered that 
he merely said slowly: 

“Who told you that lie—that Miss Forrest returned by 
the highroad?"" 

“I had the information from Miss Forrest herself."" 

RaouFs head whirled. “And she . . . when you 
mentioned the tramp she-"" 

“ Why should I mention a tramp to her? You forget, you 
told me nothing about one, when I met you coming out of 
the copse—^had not yet invented the story, perhaps."" 

“Invented!"" cried Raoul hotly. “It is as true as that I 
am standing here! Mr. Bannister can witness-"" 

“Mr. Bannister can witness that that was the story you 
told him yesterday, certainly. But what does that prove?"" 
enquired Sir Francis evenly, and sat down in a chair by the 
window. 

“You see, des Sablieres,"" said the Agent, with a wrinkled 
brow, “there is only one person who can prove that you are 
speaking the truth—though I freely admit that yesterday I 
thought you were. I mean, of course. Miss Forrest herself. 
And you hear what she says?"" 

“ I do not for one moment believe that Miss Forrest-"" 

began Raoul, and then stopped. For in a flash he saw that 




“BROKE-PAROLE!’^ 


55 

it was perfectly possible she had told that taradiddle about 
her return by the highroad in order to shield herself from 
Sir Francis’s jealous expostulations . . . only, surely, 
she had told it without dreaming of the position she had got 
him into! And by this time she was gone from Wanfield 
and would never know it! 

“Come,” went on Bannister persuasively, “you cannot 
stick to that story against the lady’s own testimony, can 
you? I am not at all anxious to go to extremities with you, 
des Sablieres—^won’t you tell me what you were really do¬ 
ing up in the copse? ” 

“You had better ask the tramp—if he can be found,’' 
answered Raoul defiantly. 

“Exactly—^if he can be found,” observed Sir Francis, 
crossing his legs. “ I have my own ideas about that tramp. 
We will come to that presently. For the moment, as Miss 
Forrest’s future husband, I ask you to withdraw your use of 
her name.” 

“ I will do that only at Miss Forrest’s own request,” said 
Raoul, looking him in the face. 

“A safe offer,” commented Sir Francis. “Miss Forrest, 
as I expect you are well aware, left Wanfield this morning, 
and does not even know that you have taken the unwar¬ 
rantable liberty of using it. And could you not,” he con¬ 
tinued with the most galling air of distaste, “have cloaked 
your proceedings by somebody else’s—some village wench’s, 
if you must be a squire of dames? ” 

Raoul’s eyes flashed. Mr. Bannister interposed, clutch¬ 
ing at this suggestion. '‘Is it not possible that M. des 
Sablieres was genuinely mistaken in the lady’s identity?” 
He turned to Raoul. “Might it not have been some other 
lady, resembling Miss Forrest, whom you defended in the 
copse?” 

“No,” said Raoul stubbornly, “it was Miss Forrest her¬ 
self and nobody else.” But he could have met these at¬ 
tacks so much better if he had not had to think hard all the 
time, to try to puzzle out while he spoke what Miss Forrest 
really had said—^what she would wish him to say. Had she 
really kept silence about the tramp? 

“Do not press M. des Sablieres unduly, Mr. Bannister,” 
said Sir Francis with suavity. “Where there was no lady. 


‘^MR. ROWL'' 


56 

and no tramp—at least not in the form of a tramp—it is 
putting too great a strain on his powers of invention to call 
on him to provide another female in distress! 

The taunt went unheeded. Raoul, his eyes following the 
pattern of Mr. Bannister's worn carpet, was thinking furi¬ 
ously, while up from the street below floated scraps of an 
animated conversation between two of his compatriots. 
The subject seemed to be the price of meat. . . . Was 
Sir Francis speaking in good faith, or was it conceivable that 
he was deliberately lying? In either case, if he, Raoul, 
chose to reveal the fact that Miss Forrest, shortly before the 
episode, had been neither walking along the tmnpike, nor 
safely ensconced at Mulholland Park, but in his company 
by the stream. Sir Francis would not have a leg to stand on. 

though, in Miss Forrest's absence, that fact would no 
doubt be disputed, he had it in his power to prove it beyond 
question. It was lucky, after all, that Sainte-Suzanne had 
seen them. 

He lifted his head. ‘'What would you say, Mr. Bannis¬ 
ter," he asked crisply, “if I told you that I had a witness, 
an unimpeachable witness, to the identity of the lady, and 
to her whereabouts just before the occurrence?" 

“I should rather want to see the witness before I ex¬ 
pressed an opinion," replied Mr. Bannister with some 
acerbity. He at least was plainly not enjoying himself. 
And Sir Francis Mulholland had suddenly turned in his 
chair and was gazing out of the window as at something of 
great interest in the street. The movement attracted 
RaouUs notice, and he kept his eyes fixed on him, for he felt 
that if he could only have seen his face at that moment he 
might have got some light on the game he was playing. 
Was he, or was he not, alarmed at the prospect of adverse 
testimony? When, after a minute or so, the Englishman 
turned round again, his face, unfortunately, betrayed 
nothing. But his tongue was biting. 

“You really propose, M. des Sablieres, to call a witness 
to prove that the lady to whom I have the honour to be 
engaged is telling a lie? I thought you claimed to be a 
gentleman!" 

“ If I call him," retorted Raoul, throwing back his head, 
“it will certainly not be against Miss Forrest." 


“BROKE-PAROLE!’^ 


57 


“You mean, I presume, that it will be against me, then? 
It is the s^e thing. I speak for Miss Forrest, and Mr. 
Bannister is satisfied that I do. Produce your witness 

“The whole question is,” said Raoul in a low voice, 
eying him, ^Whether you do speak for Miss Forrest.” 

^ Sir Francis surveyed him for a moment and then shrugged 
his shoulders. “ Then we will leave Miss Forrest out of the 
matter into which she has so improperly been dragged. 
Who is this witness whose word Mr. Bannister will take 
before 

Raoul studied the simlit carpet once more. If he called 
the Comte de Sainte-Suzanne the whole affair would come 
into the light of day, would have to be elucidated somehow. 
It would clear him, certainly. But what would be the 
result? Perhaps merely to show that though Miss Forrest 
had seen fit to hide her meeting with him by means of a fib—' 
and even, just possibly, had done so to shield him from the 
effects of her betrothed’s jealousy—he, of all men, had been 
imchivalrous enough to drag the cloak off her shoulders. 
And even if the testimony proved that it was Sir Francis 
who was doing the lying, yet, in the esclandre that must 
ensue, all Wanfield would know that he and Miss Forrest 
had been seen, not just conversing openly on the bridge, but 
some way down the stream, conveniently remote from the 
public gaze and by no means on the route to Mulholland 
Park. For though Raoul felt, as he had felt at the time, 
that the Comte was too well-bred and too discreet to blazon 
abroad his knowledge of that fact, once his testimony to it 
was demanded, it would not be much of a step to the dis¬ 
covery of an arranged meeting, of mancBUvres on Miss 
Forrest’s part. ... He could not bring that upon 
her. No, his feet were entangled every way. 

“Well, who is it?” demanded Mr. Bannister with some 
impatience. 

“On reflection, I shall not call him,” said Raoul slowly. 

“You are well advised,” observed Sir Francis. “Eng¬ 
lish law—you may not know it—does not smile on perjury. 
And now, having disposed of your fictitious companion in 
Fawley Copse, let us—let Mr. Bannister, that is—hear 
what you were doing there with your real one.” 

Raoul gave an impatient movement and turned his back^ 


58 


‘‘MR. ROWL^' 


on him. ‘'I have nothing more to say. Mr. Bannister, 
cannot this farce come to an end? Even though I am not 
believed when I tell the truth, I am not going to invent false¬ 
hoods to stand a better chance of pleasing Sir Francis Mul- 
holland.'" 

“But, des Sablieres,^^ said his shepherd very gravely, “on 
Sir Francis's showing, you have already invented them! 
This is not a farce; I have every right to ask you for the real 
explanation of your presence in the copse, out of bounds." 

“I have already given it to you!" said Raoul with sup¬ 
pressed passion. 

“As M. des Sablieres suggests, this farce had better end," 
put in Sir Francis. “ I will give you the real explanation, 
Mr. Bannister. He was there to meet an escape agent, 
and I can tell you who the agent was—Zachary Miller, the 
pedlar." 

Raoul laughed. There seemed nothing else to do. “Why 
not suggest that I went to meet the Emperor himself in 
Fawley Copse?" 

“That is only a suspicion of yours. Sir Francis," said the 
Agent, shaking his head. “You cannot prove it, I think." 

“Not yet, perhaps. But I may be able to. Zachary 
Miller was seen near Four Oaks Farm at three o'clock yester¬ 
day afternoon, talking to two Frenchmen, and he can give 
no satisfactory account of his movements between that time 
and half-past four. And, as you know, he rests under very 
strong suspicion of being concerned in the escape traffic in 
these parts, though nothing can be proved against him." 

“Two points that cannot be proved," observed Raoul 
mockingly. “You are not altogether lucky. Sir F^ncis, in 
your efforts to get rid of me!" He was becoming reckless. 

“What do you mean. Sir?" demanded his enemy, turning 
on him angrily. “Do you suggest that I am allowing per¬ 
sonal motives to weigh with me in this matter?" 

“I don't suggest, I know!" retorted Raoul. “The only 
question in my mind is to what lengths you have gone in 
that direction. Of that your own conscience is the best 
judge." 

“Will you allow me to speak to M. des Sablieres alone?" 
»asked Mr. Bannister, intervening rather hastily at this 
point. “ I think it would be better." 


“BROKE-PAROLE! 


59 


Sir Francis immediately took up his hat and riding whip. 
“ I will withdraw altogether, my dear Bannister. My im- 
pleasant task is done. I have shown you that M. des 
Sablieres' alleged reason for going out of bounds is a pure 
invention, and a cl^sy one at that, besides not reflecting 
much credit upon him, and in my capacity as a justice of the 
peace I warn you of what I am convinced was his real rea¬ 
son. However, as I understand it, the mere fact of broken 
parole is in itself sufficient. ... I have every confi¬ 
dence that you will do your duty. Good morning.” ^d 
the door shut behind him. 

“Well, are you going to do your duty, as Sir Francis 
orders you?” enquired Raoul after a moment. But Mr. 
Bannister was walking up and down with bent head and 
did not answer. “Why did you say you wanted to see me 
alone?” went on the young man. “I have nothing differ¬ 
ent to tell you, nor, since Sir Francis has poisoned your mind 
against me, would you believe it if I had.” 

Mr. Bannister stopped his pacing. “My mind is not 
poisoned against you, des Sablieres. I am more grieved 
and disappointed over this affair than I can say. But how 
can I take your word against Sir Francis Mulholland's? 
If you had only been frank with me-” 

“I have been—to very little purpose!” 

“How can you call that being frank,” asked the Agent 
reproachfully, “to tell me an impossible and yet specious 
story about a lady and a tramp which the very next day is 
unmasked as a falsehood? If you had said straightfor¬ 
wardly that you had yielded to a not unnatural tempta¬ 
tion to go out of bounds for a few moments I might have 
stretch^ a point and let you off with a fine, but the motive 
which requires so preposterous a tale to cover it. . . 

He paused. 

“Yes, I see,” said Raoul bitterly. “Next time that I am 
in a difficulty I must remember that the one thing not to do 
is to tell the truth. But I suppose your kind intention is to 
deliver me now from the possibility of getting into any more 
such difficulties?” 

And, though he threw out this feeler with a certain airy 
defiance, his heart was beating pretty rapidly. 

“I cannot help myself,” returned the Agent shortly. 



60 


‘^MR. ROWL'' 


‘'You have broken your ppole and will not tell me why. 
The interpretation which Sir Francis puts upon your action 
cannot be proved, but, since you will give me no other that 
satisfies me, it always remains a possibility. I should not, 
therefore, be worthy of the trust which I hold if I let you 
continue at large. In accordance with the standing orders 
which I have received from the Transport Office I must send 
you to Norman Cross d^p6t, if they have room to receive 
you, which I shall ascertain without delay—if not, to 
Stapleton Prison or elsewhere. Meanwhile,'' he approached 
the bellrope on the wall, “ I am afraid that I must send you 
to the lock-up here." 

Raoul had turned a little pale, but at that the colour 
swept over his face again. “Coiild I not go back to my 
lodgings till you—till you hear from Norman Cross?" he 
asked. “I would give you my word, as yesterday, not to 
leave them." 

“I cannot take your word now, I am sorry to say," re¬ 
plied Mr. Bannister sadly; “and as you are no longer a 
prisoner on parole I am unable to grant you that indulgence. 
I have a militia guard here; the best advice I can give you 
is not to cause a disturbance. You shall not stay in gaol 
an hour longer than is necessary; that I can promise 
you." But still he did not ring the bell to summon the 
guard. 

He was giving Raoul a last chance before the net closed 
about him; the young man was conscious of that. He had 
only to mention Sainte-Suzanne's name. For a moment he 
hesitated, struck by the idea that he might make some kind 
of compromise—tell Bannister of the interview by the 
stream but say that he did not wish the information to go 
further. For it was a real grief to him to lose his shepherd's 
regard—and needlessly. But Bannister was too honest a 
man to send him to prison if he believed him innocent, yet, 
if he did not, the Agent would be forced to justify his action 
to Sir Francis at least, and the whole meeting by the stream 
would become public after all. If he could only be sure 
that Miss Forrest had not fibbed, that it was Sir Francis, 
incredible as it seemed, who was lying? Yet, because there 
was the chance that she had done so there was nothing for it 
but to uphold her and take his punishment in silence. For, 


‘‘BROKE-PAROLE!’^ 61 

though Sir Francis Mulholland affected to doubt it, he did 
claim to be a gentleman. 

‘'Thank you for that promise, Sir,” he said, and shut his 
mouth rather tightly. 

“And is that all you have to say?” asked Bannister, his 
hand on the bellrope. 

“That is all,” said Raoul; and the Agent rang the bell. 

So, a minute and a half later, Mr. Rowl went through 
the door of that well-known office for the last time, and 
presently afforded all Wanfield the spectacle of yet an¬ 
other French officer being marched off under arrest. The 
thronged High Street stared and sniggered, while from all 
quartern came joyfully clattering small boys crying out 
that epithet which he had vowed should never be applied to 
him—“Broke-parole! Broke-parole!”. . . And outside 
the post-office, for the last drop in the cup, was standing the 
Comte de Sainte-Suzanne, leaning on his cane. Their 
looks met, for Raoul flung up his head defiantly. A fleeting 
expression that began as sorrow and ended as scorn went 
over the old man’s face. Then hejtumed his back on him. 


CHAPTER VI 


FIAT JUSTITLA, RUAT CCELUM 

The B^a was carried in chains to Constantinople, and his name 
was mentioned no more.— Rasselas, chap. xxiv. 

Fragments of a correspondence exchanged at the end of 
March, 1813. 

From Miss Laetitia Bentley to the Hon, Juliana Forrest 

Northover, March 24. 

My dearest Juliana, when she pays her promised visit to North- 
over next month will, I feel sure, sadly miss one agreeable 'presence 
from our little gatherings and one ver'y pleasing voice from our musical 
diversions, and she will be distressed at the reason for it. Captain 
des Sablieres, sad to say, has been sent as a prisoner to the depot at 
Norman Cross in Huntingdonshire, for breaking his parole under some 
mysterious circumstances which Mr. Bannister will not reveal, but 
which are given out to be particularly discreditable. Your Laetitia 
cannot believe this latter charge, nor Papa either, who says, however, 
that since Mr. Bannister is a perfectly honest man, and was formerly 
very well disposed towards M. des Sablieres, it is clear that the latter 
mi^t have committed some breach of the parole regulations. It is 
said that he had all but completed his arrangements for escaping. 
If that should be so, how were we deceived in him! But no—I do 
not, will not, credit it! 

... Is it true that everything in London at present isdla Russe, and 
have you, my Juliana, observed any real elegantes wearing the hair, in 
evening or opera dress, **flat on the sides, and in waved curls in front, 
and confined in full curls at the hack of the head, with an apparent stray 
ringlet falling on one shoulder,” as I have read is the mode? Pray be 
sure to bring back all the fashionable intelligence of this kind. 

From the Hon. Juliana Forrest to 
Sir Francis Mulholland, Bart. 


,, „ Grosvenor Square, March 27, 1813. 

My dear Francis: 

I am greatly distressed to hear that M. des Sablieres has been sent to 
Norman Cross prison for breaking his parole, since I cannot but con- 


62 


FIAT JUSTITIA, RUAT C(ELUM 63 

nect it with his coming to my rescue in Fawley Copse, as I described to 
you. But surely he could not have been convicted for an act so plainly 
one of chivalry—yet still less can I imagine his having transgressed 
the obligations of his parole. I am deeply uneasy about the whole 
matter, and implore you to relieve my anxiety. 

From Sir Francis Mulholland to the Hon. Juliana Forrest 

Mulholland Park, March 30, 1813. 

My dearest Juliana: 

Sorry as l am to lower the high opinion in which I know you hold 
M. des Sablieres, I must, as you urge me, tell you the truth of the 
matter—or at least so much of it as is known to me. It was not his 
having gone to your assistance in Fawley Copse (which could, in the 
circumstances, easily have been overlooked) that was the cause of his 
committal to Norman Cross, but a much more serious happening 
which came to light immediately after your departure. Bannister 
refuses to reveal the circumstances, but, as far as I can gather, they 
must be very black: it is generally understood that the Frenchman 
had all but completed the arrangements for his escape when they were 
discovered. 

I look back, my dear Juliana, with regret to the thought that we 
could ever have had a difference of opinion over so unworthy an ob¬ 
ject, nor do I wish to lay stress on the fact that it is not I who am 
proved wrong by the sequel. You will, I am sure, be glad now that 
you gave me your promise that last evening here not to say a word to 
any one of your encounter with the tramp; as much as I myself will 
you wish to preserve your name from association with that of a man 
who has violated his word of honour. 

You cannot guess how I count the days till your arrival at North- 
over, where, I hope, Miss Bentley will not find me too assiduous a 
visitor. . . . 


Spring was a fact, not a promise, when Juliana came back 
to WanBeld, and Northover welcomed her with pear and 
apple blossom. As for Laetitia, she and her dearest friend 
might have been parted for a year instead of a month, so 
rapturous was her greeting. Sir Francis Mulholland's also 
was everything which a young lady could desire of her 
swain, and when he paid his first visit to Northover the day 
after Juliana's arrival, Laetitia thought him strangely im¬ 
proved in manner, and commented upon the fact to her 
Papa, who opined that somehow or other Miss Juliana, 
when last at Wanfield, had given him a fright, and that he 
was walking delicately in consequence. 

It was true that Sir Francis had need to walk delicately, 


64 


‘‘MR. ROWL’' 


but it was more on accoimt of his own actions than of 
Juliana's. He had been—^he was still—^playing a terribly 
risky game, but he had taken precautions. . . . 

When, on returning to Mulholland Park that evening 
after laying information against des Sablieres, he heard from 
Juliana herself the reason of the Frenchman's rushing up to 
the copse, he was greatly chagrined, both by the check to his 
newly fomed plan of getting rid of him, and by Juliana's 
openly displayed gratitude and admiration for his timely 
succour. On top of this—for it did not take much to bring 
out what Miss Juliana had always half intended that he 
should know . . . for his own good . . . came 

the stunning intelligence that she had previously met her 
rescuer, by appointment, at the bridge. 

The shock convinced her betrothed that his apprehen¬ 
sions were far from being idle. Drastic action was ab¬ 
solutely necessary now. But he behaved to the trans¬ 
gressor with a circumspection of which he was afterwards 
to reap the reward. By the exercise of really praiseworthy 
self-control he contrived to avoid making a scene over this 
mortifying discovery, confining himself to pointing out the 
patent results of having returned home unescort^. And 
Juliana, worked upon by this moderation as she never would 
have been by reproaches, admitted to having been at least 
foolish, and gave her affianced without much difficulty the 
promise that she would not only abstain from mentioning 
the clandestine meeting even to Laetitia Bentley, but that 
the tramp episode also should be buried in deep oblivion. 
For she was sufficiently ashamed now of the one and shaken 
by the other to agree that it was not desirable to have her 
name coupled in Wanfield gossip with her rescuer's, since 
blame might thereby accrue to Sir Francis, who certainly 
could not with justice be accused of having willingly let her 
return home unescorted. 

After this interview Sir Francis spent a good part of the 
night weighing the risks of the all-too-tempting course open 
to him; and, with this revelation of Juliana's self-will before 
him, decided to take them. It was quite useless for her to 
declare (as she had done) that the Frenchman had not 
attempted in the slightest degree to make love to her, or 
that he was not jointly responsible, at the very least, for the 


FIAT JUSTITIA, RUAT CCELUM 65 

meeting; Sir Francis simply did not believe her. Yet 
without Juliana's early departure next morning he could 
hardly have carried through his unscrupulous design. His 
one really uncomfortable moment in Bannister's office was 
when his victim threatened to call a witness of Miss For¬ 
rest's whereabouts; but, since he did not do it, and Juliana 
had said nothing of any one having seen them together, Sir 
Francis decided that this threat was mere bravado. Ban¬ 
nister's mouth he subsequently shut by the very reasonable- 
sounding request that he would abstain from mentioning in 
Wanfield the ground on which des Sabli^res had been sent 
to prison, because Miss Forrest's name had been brought 
—though unjustifiably—into the affair. The one risk 
against which it was impossible to guard was that of the 
Frenchman's writing from prison to Juliana in person and 
pking her to corroborate his challenged statement; indeed, 
it was not until Sir Francis received Juliana's own letter of 
enquiry that he knew for certain that this had not hap¬ 
pened. 

After that it remained only to provide against Juliana 
herself making inconvenient investigations at Wanfield on 
her return, and this, too, the ingenious gentleman had devised 
a means of preventing. He put his plan into practice when, 
on the third day of her stay at Northover, she drove, with 
Laetitia Bentley, to call on Mrs. Mulholland, bearing with 
her for the old lady a large shawl of Siberian wool edged 
with sealskin. 

Juliana's future home, which stood upon an eminence, 
had been Grecianized and stuccoed over at the end of the 
last century, and one looked from between an intolerable 
number of pillars down a good mile or so of park-like dis¬ 
tance which included fallow deer. The other two ladies 
tactfully remaining in the drawing-room (from which 
indeed Mrs. Mulholland rarely stirred). Sir Francis drew his 
betrothed through the pillars on to the terrace. 

You have very much improved the view from here since 
I last saw it, Francis," remarked Juliana with appreci¬ 
ation. 

"I am so glad that you think so, my dearest. I hoped it 
would please you." He took her hand and carried it 
tenderly to his lips. 


66 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


He was to-day much more the man who had swept her 
off her feet in January, strong, self-confident, handsome, 
smiling, yet lover-like, and as she looked at him Juliana 
began to feel that she had been unduly hard on him that 
afternoon in the Chinese room at Northover, that it was 
she, perhaps, who had exaggerated his care and devotion 
into jealousy. He had behaved so well over the test—Faw- 
ley Bridge! 

But what of her companion that day by the stream? Her 
face clouded. Sir Francis, watching it, felt that he knew 
on what subject she was about to embark, and welcomed 
the topic, for the finishing stroke had to be put to his own 
security. 

He was right. ‘Trancis,” she said in a troubled voice, 
sinking down on a stone seat which faced the view, ‘"this 
sad business about M. des Sablieres? I cannot believe 
what is said of him! I want to go into the matter more 
fully—I want you to institute enquiries. I am certain 
there is a mistake somewhere. Yet you told me in your 
letter that Mr. Bannister will not say a word, and Mr. 
Bentley, I find, knows nothing, distressed as he is about the 
affair. And you know nothing. . . . But I am de¬ 
termined to find out. You must recognize that gratitude 
alone-'' 

/‘Oh, yes, my dear, I recognize that, and I quite agree 
with you,” said the follower of Machiavelli. “But since I 
wrote to you Bannister has told me the story—the whole 
story. My lips, however, are unfortunately seaM, even 
to you, Juliana, for it involves the honour of someone of 
consequence.” (He was not referring to himself, but to 
some^ entirely mythical personage.) "No good to des 
Sablieres, I assure you, could come of investigation, and it 
would only bring shame on this other person—if you 
succeeded, that is. So I implore you, my dear one, to give 
up the attempt.” 

This man, the lover of four months ago, she would listen 
to, and so she looked at him mutely, impressed, and with no 
thought of doubting what he said. 

“You realize, Juliana, do you not,” he went on gently, 
“that des Sablieres, who was undoubtedly a favourite of 
Bannister's and had received privileges from him, would 



FIAT JUSTITIA, RUAT CCELUM 67 

never have been sent off to a prison without strong proof of 
his guilt?” 

^ ‘‘And you know the story,” said Juliana slowly, looking at 
him as if she only wished she could read it on his face. “ Can 
you not assure me, at least, that it was not very disgraceful 
—^from M. des Sablieres' point of view? ” 

How she fought for him! But the shade of Machiavelli 
inspired Sir Francis to his best stroke. Instead of replying, 
in the style of Mr. Ramage, that it was disgraceful, scandal¬ 
ous and disgraceful, he said temperately: “I suppose, Juli¬ 
ana, that one must make allowances for a poor devil of a 
prisoner who is tempted to regain his liberty at the price of 
his honour. Perhaps we, who are perfectly free, have not 
the right to blame him very much.” 

Juliana Forrest sighed and looked away at the long vista, 
and her betrothed looked at her. The doubt had already 
begun to work, perhaps? If she thought the fellow had 
really behaved ill, he believed she had too much feeling for 
him (curse him!) ever to set to work to imveil the details of 
his misconduct. 

“And the other man involved?” asked Juliana after a 
moment. 

Sir Francis slightly smiled and shook his head. “ I have 
given my word to Bannister that not a syllable shall pass 
my lips. You, surely, are not the woman to tempt me to 
break it, my Juliana? . . . Will you look at the new 
shrubbery before we go in again? ” 

She assented, and in the shrubbery allowed him to kiss 
her. 

“Did you have an agreeable talk in the garden, Francis, 
you and dear Juliana?” quavered old Mrs. Mulholland 
when, some half hour later, her son returned from handing 
the ladies into the Northover barouche. “I thought the 
dear girl looked a little sad when she came in, but you 
seemed in such spirits that I daresay I was mistaken, and I 
had mislaid my spectacles. . . . Dear Laetitia Bentley 

and I had such an interesting discussion about woolwork 
while you were out there.” 

“We had a very satisfactory conversation indeed,” re¬ 
plied he, “and she quite approves of the new shrubbery.” 


68 


MR. ROWL^’ 


''Dear Juliana has very good taste/’ rippled on Mrs. 
Mulholland, gazing fondly at her new acquisition. "This 
exquisite shawl—so warm, too! I wished to ask her if she 
liked my new cap, but I feared that it might be crooked 
and thought it better not to draw her attention to it.” 

" It is certainly crooked now,” observed Sir JYancis. " I 
will put it straight for you.” He did so, and gave his 
mother a kiss—a somewhat rare event. But when a man 
has just brought off a very delicate stroke of diplomacy, he 
is naturally rather expansive. 

So Juliana became once more a part of the merry little 
gatherings at Northover which, as the weather grew warmer, 
tended to overflow from the drawing room and the piano¬ 
forte into the spring-decked garden. Another French 
officer or two had superseded Raoul des Sablieres, whose 
name was practically never heard there now, for the discus¬ 
sion of the crop of black surmises raised by Mr. Bannister’s 
determined refusal to give even a hint of why he had been 
sent to prison was dying down by this time. Yet Juliana 
had declared to her friend that she did not believe one of 
the damaging conjectures which were repeated to her, had 
even declared it once or twice vehemently in public; after 
which she never spoke of the young FYenchman again. 
Only Laetitia noticed that on the day when young Mr. 
Curtis from Stoneleigh Manor sang "Since First I Saw 
Yoiu* Face” in her hearing she made an excuse and slipped 
from the room. 

But inwardly Juliana still told herself that she never 
doubted there had been some misunderstanding; indeed she 
could not, illogically, perhaps, quite rid herself of the feeling 
that after all the rush to her succour had had something to 
do with the business. But she could do nothing now, after 
what Francis had said. And perhaps there had come to 
"Mr. Rowl” some sudden violent temptation ... he 
had said that day something significant about his inactivity 
. . . Francis, who knew the truth, had suggested that 
he should not be blamed overmuch . . . that was so 
generous of Francis . . . so different from Mr. Ramage, 
who on the same theme was intolerable. Knowing the 
sentiments of M. de Sainte-Suzanne on the subject of 


FIAT JUSTITIA, RUAT CCELUM 69 

parole-breaking, she was careful never to mention RaouFs 
name before him; but the topic of his disgrace did come up 
one day in the Comte's presence, and he behaved in an un¬ 
expected and inscrutable manner, puzzling her not so much 
by what he said as by what he did not say. 

Meanwhile there began to be talk of her wedding, some 
time in the autumn. It was to take place from her father's 
house in Grosvenor Square. Every time she went over to 
Mulholland Park Mrs. Mulholland reconsulted her about 
her headgear for that occasion, and Juliana and her be¬ 
trothed smiled together over her anxiety in the new com¬ 
munion which seemed to have sprung up between them. 

The pear blossom fell; the apple blossom was at its zenith. 
In a certain wood not far from Wanfield were reported to be 
great quantities of bluebells; and there, on the twenty- 
eighth of April, the young people proposed to partake of 
a cold collation. Sir Francis Mulholland (on horseback) 
and Mr. Bentley were also to be of the party. But early 
on the morning of this expedition Juliana, who was without 
her maid, discovered that the dress which she designed to 
wear on this occasion was in need of a new tucker, and since 
there was plenty of time to supply this want, she and Lae- 
titia ordered the barouche early and drove into Wanfield. 

Just before they alighted from the carriage in the High 
Street Juliana observed a French naval officer salute Miss 
Bentley, and enquired who it was. 

"‘It was Lieutenant Lamotte," replied her friend. “I 
have met him at the Curtises. He lodges with Miss Hitch- 
ings—^where poor M. des Sablieres used to lodge." 

At the mention of that name Juliana's face had clouded, 
but she said nothing, and in another moment they were 
descending at the door of the linen-draper's shop. But, as 
they were on the point of entering, they heard hasty steps, 
and turning, saw the young Frenchman hunying towards 
them. 

“Miss Bentley," said he in his own language, “I have a 
commission—^that is, if this lady is Miss Forrest, as I think, 
and if you will be so obliging as to present me? The com¬ 
mission was entrusted to me by my comrade, Captain des 
Sablieres, before his departure." 


70 


MR. ROWL” 


Juliana coloured. Lieutenant Lamotte was presented, 
and thereupon addressed her directly. 

''Captain des Sablieres entrusted me, Mademoiselle, with 
an English book to return to you. If it is not improper, 
would you allow me to discharge the commission now 
. . . provided it would not be burdening you . . . 

for Mulholland Park is out of bounds for me.'^ 

"But Miss Forrest is not-began Laetitia, and was 

too much arrested by the expression on her friend's face 
to finish. 

"I lent M. des Sablieres no book. Monsieur," said Juliana 
slowly. 

"But yes. Mademoiselle! You have forgotten your 
kindness. Rasselas, by the Doctor Johnson. If you will 
allow me—as I see that you are on the point of entering this 
shop—I will run meanwhile to my lodgings and get it and 
wait for you here." 

"Do, pray," said Juliana. She was looking oddly grave 
and discomposed, and in the shop paid but small attention 
to the choice of a tucker. 

When they emerged there was the yoimg man awaiting 
them. 

"This is the book. Mademoiselle. When Captain des 
Sablieres came out of gaol he was allowed a short time in 
his room to get together his effects, and he charged me 
with it. I was to give it to you in person with the expression 
of his regrets that in so short a time he had not been able 
to finish reading it." 

Juliana, now colouring deeply, took the book. Why had 
Mr. Rowl returned it? She had given it to him to keep— 
he knew that. It surely was not possible that he felt him¬ 
self unworthy? 

"I suppose," she said falteringly, "that M. des Sablieres 
was not allowed to take his possessions with him to Norman 
Cross?" 

"Oh, yes. Mademoiselle; he took what he had—it is true 
it was not much. I think this book, being your property, 
was the only thing he left behind . . . and he charg^ 
me most particularly to return it to you in person at the 
first opportunity." 

Juliana looked down at the little calf-bound volume, and. 


FIAT JUSTITIA, RUAT CGELUM 71 

was back nearly six weeks in time, and heard the stream 
ripple again and the thrush call, which he who had been 
with her then could hear no longer. 

''And that was all the message? ” 

"Yes, Mademoiselle; that he regretted he could not finish 
the book m the time. In effect,'^ said M. Lamotte as if to 
excuse his compatriot, "he had only that one evening be¬ 
fore he was sent to the gaol here.'" 

"Which evening was that?^' asked Juliana quickly. 

"The evening when, coming to sup with him, I found him 
deep m that book; and he told me that he had only just 
received it that afternoon. I remember observing the 
title—a strange one. And when I saw him again three 
days afterward, under guard, he gave me the book for you, 
as I say."' 

"He—^he did not say then why he was being sent to 
Norman Cross?” asked Juliana with a beating heart. 

"No, Mademoiselle. But I suppose it was for the same 
cause which had led Mr. Bannister to put him practically 
under arrest on the evening to which I was referring. Mr. 
Bannister had been to see him, and bade him not to leave 
the house; Captain des Sablieres did not tell me why, only 
that it was on account of some misunderstanding which 
would be put right in the morning. Certainly it did not 
trouble him much that evening,” said Lieutenant Lamotte 
reminiscently. "But yet in the morning it was not put 
right.” 

Fawley Copse . . • her rescue . . . Rasselas 
had been there, too ... oh, was it Fawley Copse 
which had ruined him? "Oh, Monsieur, if you could but 
tell me which evening that was! Forgive me—^but the ex¬ 
act date is so important! I—I know something which 
might help M. des Sablieres to clear himself, for I have 
never believed that he broke his parole.” 

"Nor I, Mademoiselle,” said the sailor simply. "And I 
do not need any effort to remember the date, as it happens. 
It was on the evening before the birthday of the King of 
Rome that des Sablieres was confined to the house— 
Friday, the nineteenth of March. The birthday itself, 
which is on the twentieth, the poor des Sablieres spent in 
gaol, but for a certain reason we had celebrated it the eve- 


72 ‘‘MR. ROWL^' 

ning before, the nineteenth. I am quite certain of that, 
IVEademoiselle 

“The nineteenth of March—the Friday—the same day!'' 
said Juliana, apparently speaking to herself. “So it had to 
do with that—it was not something which was discovered 
later! Thank you. Monsieur," she added, /‘and forgive 
my questions. Your friend has had a great injustice done 
him; it must be put right at once!" 

Her voice was firm, but she was very pale. Lieutenant 
Lamotte bowed and took himself off. Laetitia put her arm 
through her friend's. 

“What is the matter, dearest Juliana?" she asked anx¬ 
iously. “You are unwell! Let us go back into the shop." 

But Juliana shook her head. Clutching Rasselas to her 
she said solemnly: ‘'Letty, I shall never, never play with 
fire again! It is other people who get burnt. I ani sure 
it is all my fault that he was sent to prison—^but if it is I 
am going to repair it. Please desire your coachman to set 
us down at Mr. Bannister's office without delay." 

Three quarters of an hour later the barouche was bearing 
back to Northover two very different damsels, not only 
from those who had set out upon that brief shopping ex¬ 
pedition, but even from those who had entered the office of 
the astonished Agent to set right an injustice . . . and 
had discovered and fired a mine. Laetitia was frankly 
crying; Juliana, shivering with a strange inner cold, sat 
staring straight before her. It had needed only her initial 
remark to Mr. Bannister—‘H fear it is on account of the 
service he rendered me that day in Fawley Copse that 
M. des Sablieres got into difficulties with you? "—to bring 
down like a pack of cards all Sir Francis Mulholland's elab¬ 
orate edifice of lies. But the effect of the fall on Bannister 
and themselves had been like that of a landslide. 

As they came in sight of the gates of Northover Laetitia 
dabbed at her eyes. 

‘'Oh, Juliana, what shall we do? We cannot go to the 
wood—at least, I feel too wretched . . . and what will 
Papa and everybody say if we do not?" 

“/ am going to the wood," responded Juliana firmly. 
“I want to see . . . Sir Francis ... at once. 


FIAT JUSTITIA, RUAT C(ELUM 73 

He joins us there, you remember. And you must come, 
Laetitia, because you must, if necessary, contrive an oppor¬ 
tunity for me to see him alone. Do you understand? Pull 
your bonnet down a little, and perhaps no one will observe 
that you have been crying.'' 

Her resolution and self-command amazed the weaker spirit, 
who made haste, however, to obey her. Fortunately, they 
were so late—Mr. Bentley was already waiting on the door¬ 
step, and two other carriages full of laughter and expostula¬ 
tions were in the drive—that there was no time for any one 
to notice discomposure, and if the two young men who drove 
with the just-returned ladies observed anything unusual, 
they had perforce to keep their speculations to themselves. 

The bluebells were even bluer and more numerous than 
had been expected, the collation was voted excellent, the 
weather perfect. But Sir Francis Mulholland, if no one 
else, noticed that his bride-to-be looked pale and distraite, 
and himself made the opportunity she wished for by sug¬ 
gesting, soon after the company had risen from their cold 
chicken and ham, that they should take a stroll to see more 
bluebells. 

Juliana assented, but almost inaudibly, and she did not 
take his proffered arm. Side by side they walked away 
from the others. 

/'I am alarmed about you to-day, my love," observed 
Sir Francis solicitously, as they went. ''You are so pale; 
you tired yourself, I fear, by going into Wanfield, as I hear 
you did, this morning." 

The moment had come—so soon. Speech was not easy. 
Juliana fixed her eyes on the stump of a tree, and the words 
came out slowly and heavily. "Yes, I had a great shock in 
Wanfield this nioming. ... I do not imagine that, 
however long I live, I shall ever receive a greater." 

The colour left her lover's face, too. "What were you 
doing in Wanfield?" he asked uneasily. 

" I went to Mr. Bannister's office." She heard him give 
an inarticulate exclamation. "I do not need to tell you 
what I learnt there—^what an incredible story of deceit, of 
mean revenge, came out." She turned her beautiful, accus¬ 
ing eyes on him. "Francis, Francis, how cmld you do it 
—^how could you descend to such inexpressible baseness!" 


74 


‘^MR. ROWL^’ 


''Because you drove me to it!"' he cried wildly. "You 
scorned my entreaties, my warnings! And what of your 
own deceit? After your meeting him like that at Fawley 
Bridge I had to get rid of him. And I did nothing so very 
blameworthy, after all; Norman Cross is the best of the war 
prisons . . . and he was a prisoner in any case; it 
cannot have done him much harm. If you had listened to 
me-” 

The inward cold grew and spread till Juliana^s very heart 
seemed frozen with disgust. "Then, if I can drive you to 
such an act as knowingly to take away an innocent man's 
honour, and to say that you have not hurt him—and to such 
monstrous lies to cover it—it is my duty as well as my wish 
to sever oiu* relationship I" And she slipped the ruby from 
her finger. "Pray take back your ring, for our engagement 
is at an end." 

He would not take it, and finally it dropped between 
them among the croziers of the young fern. He blustered, 
he raved, he pleaded; he even went on his knees to her 
among the bracken and the bluebells. "Juliana, have 
mercy! It was because I loved you so . . . Fll do 

anything—retract what I said, write to Norman Cross-" 

"Mr. Bannister is already doing that!" 

Sir Francis got to his feet; his face was patched and 
chalky. "I shall be ruined if this gets about!" 

She surveyed him with deeper contempt. "And what 
of the man you have ruined?" 

"It can be imdone, Juliana—I swear Fll reinstate him, 
whatever it costs! You don't know how you maddened 
me. . . . For God's sake, think better of it! Put that 
ring on again and I will never be jealous of you again in 
my life. . . . Where is the ring?" He stooped and 
began to fumble with shaking hands among the dead leaves 
and sand. 

"Jealous!" exclaimed Juliana. "It is the lies, the sub¬ 
terfuges—the chain of subterfuges! . . . Why, I should 

never be able to believe a word you said to me as long 
as I lived. And once I thought . . . Oh, Francis, 

Francis-" The tears came over her own lost happiness, 

and the ideal figure she had been rebuilding—on a founda¬ 
tion of mud. And for the sake of what she once had 



FIAT JUSTITIA, RUAT CCELUM 75 

thought hm she promised, before she left him, that in the 
rehabilitation of his victim he should be spared as much as 
possible, that she would ask Mr. Bannister to say locally 
that there had been a mistake . . . misunderstandings 
. . . anything to cover his disgraceful conduct. For 
she, too, felt humiliated to the dust. 

And finally she went away from him, rather stumblingly, 
and a little later was found by Mr. Bentley crying at the 
foot of an oak tree, and that good friend, after letting her 
finish on his shoulder, had the carriage brought up and sent 
her home alone with Laetitia, on the plea of sudden illness. 

But the ruby ring, after exercising the wits of a number 
of ants and beetles, was found next year by Zachary Miller 
as he was putting a ferret down a rabbit hole, and, cautiously 
disposed of at a distance, contributed not a little toward 
his marriage and the consequent begetting of a number of 
assistants and successors to carry on his activities in the 
Mulholland woods and elsewhere. 


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PART II 

THE COST OF A WHIM 





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CHAPTER I 
FORGOTTEN? 


It was divided into many squares or courts . . . according to 
the rank of those for whom they were designed. . . . This house 

. . . was built as if Suspicion herself had dictated the plan.— 

RasselaSf chap. i. 

The mild blue sky was covered with the most delightful 
little fleecy clouds in motion. Raoul des Sablieres, his 
head tilted back against the eight-feet-high palisade of the 
oflScers' enclosure at Norman Cross, watched them rather 
abstractedly. One seemed to be outstripping the others: 
he wondered how long it would take to traverse the great 
camp, and what it saw as it sailed over the heads of more 
than five thousand prisoners. 

He knew pretty well, although, as an officer, he was con¬ 
fined to one small section of the town—for Norman Cross 
ddpot, though set in the middle of fields, was almost a town. 
For a moment or two Raoul idly imagined himself voyaging 
on the cloud over Yaxley or Stilton barracks (the prison 
was rich in these three names). Now he was poised above 
the octagonal wooden blockhouse in the centre, with its 
projecting guns dominating each of the four courts or 
''airing-groimds” which so symmetrically surrounded it— 
each court a couple of acres in extent, and each containing 
four blocks of wooden buildings placed side by side at one 
of the outer edges. Every block was calculated to hold 
five hundred men, but in the northeastern court three had 
been taken over as a hospital, and, of those in the south¬ 
eastern, the endmost facing east was the officers' prison, in 
the small separate enclosure of which the imaginary voyager 
sat at this moment. The two English militia regiments 
on guard were quartered outside the walls altogether. 

Raoul and his cloud would, he knew, see a good deal of 
79 


80 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


activity going on in those forty-two acres, and more spe¬ 
cially in the twenty-two of the prison proper. There misery 
and cheerfulness, improvidence and industry jostled each 
other daily, for while some of the prisoners persistently 
gambled away not only their clothes and their bedding but 
even their rations, others turned out little articles of beauti¬ 
ful workmanship in straw, bone, or paper, of which they 
were able to dispose at the market regularly held at the 
eastern gate. One object alone they might not legally 
manufacture and sell—straw plait; so that highly paid com¬ 
modity was generally smuggled out by soldier accomplices. 

It was Saturday, the first of May, and Raoul had now 
been for nearly six weeks a member of this captive popula¬ 
tion. His immediate companions, with a very few excep¬ 
tions, were all ''broke-paroles” . . . like himself. 
Raoul had come by now, on the surface, almost to class 
himself as one, but underneath there was still the same in¬ 
dignant repudiation of the stigma. At first he had kept 
sornewhat aloof from the other officers, until he saw that his 
attitude was resented, until he was, in fact, asked rather 
roughly what he had to give himself airs about—^and had 
bitterly put the same question to himself. . . . 

For the first month at Norman Cross he had been sus¬ 
tained by the hope that when Miss Forrest returned to Wan- 
field she would discover his absence, realize her share in the 
disaster which had befallen him, and set about having the 
injustice righted. Even if she had told the untruth attrib¬ 
uted to her, surely when she discovered what it had in¬ 
volved for him. ... In his very uncomfortable and 
depressing detention in the lock-up at Wanfield he had been 
strongly visited by the temptation to write directly to her 
and ask her whether she had declared that she had returned 
from Northover by the highroad. But that would have 
been to force her hand; it was practically begging her to save 
him at whatever cost to herself, and it was of small use to 
be quixotic (if he had been quixotic) in the semi-publicity 
of Mr. Bannister's office if, at the first taste of the conse¬ 
quences of his attitude, he was going to cry for mercy. So 
the letter was never written—though another was. 

But, though he would not put pressure upon her, "Mr. 
Rowl” might legitimately hope that Miss Forrest would, of 


FORGOTTEN? 


81 


her own free will, take some action on his behalf. Yet the 
days stole on, monotonous and unpleasant, and nothing 
happened. He was forgotten; just one more ''broke- 
parole.'' 

Raoul was not, however, of the temper to spend his time 
idly brooding over his situation, and from the first moment 
of his entry into Norman Cross his dominant idea had been 
how to get out again. And at last, after weeks of planning, 
there seemed a chance of realizing this ambition. It was 
true that in the sixteen years of its existence as a war-prison 
(for which it had been specially built) very few captives had 
succeeded in escaping from the d4p6t. But chance had 
thrown Raoul into close contact with two others as deter¬ 
mined as himself to get away—a certain Lieutenant Clairet 
of the 26th of the line, and a Captain Dumont, commander 
of a St. Malo privateer, the Indienne. The shortage of 
accommodation in the officers' quarters at the moment of 
his arrival had caused Raoul to be thrust at night into the 
cupboard—^it was scarcely more—which was inhabited by 
these two men, and in this proximity was hatched the scheme 
to which that very proximity had given rise. 

The first problem was that of procuring three suits of 
civilian clothes; this, with the greatest difficulty, they had 
succeeded in doing. The next was that of getting undis¬ 
covered out of Caserne No. 8, the officers' block. Their 
tiny sleeping apartment had no proper window, but there 
was a ventilator in the roof, and this could be gained by an 
active young man assisted by his friends, and the same 
young man, at the cost of abrasions, could just squeeze him¬ 
self through it, and enlarge the exit by removing portions 
from outside. For the last three nights Raoul had been 
working away at this task, and on Monday the three adven¬ 
turers counted upon scrambling out of this aperture and 
then climbing down in the dark as best they could into the 
enclosure. They had already contrived to bore a few small 
holes in the high stockade, and into these, when the moment 
came, they intended to thrust some long nails to give them 
foothold. But, since it was out of their power previously 
to approach and prepare the great brick wall which sur¬ 
rounded the prison, they had to trust to aid from its other 
side. Cautious negotiations, conducted by the English- 


'^MR. ROWL^^ 


82 

i 

speaMng Raoul, with a venal sentry of the West Kent 
militia, then on duty there, had resulted in the agreement 
that on the Monday night, the latter, being on guard out¬ 
side near the south gate, should throw a rope over the wall, 
fastening it to some projection or other at its foot. Once 
over, and if they had the luck not to be seen by a sentry 
on the farther side, the fugitives could easily find their way 
to the Peterborough road, which practically bordered the 
camp on the south. Thereafter, trusting to their wits, they 
must make either for the shores of the Wash or for the 
northern coast of Norfolk; they had a rather pathetic faith 
that, once arrived at the sea, Dumont, as a master mariner, 
would find some means of conveying them over that element. 

I RaouFs cloud was gone now—melted into the blue; but 
that did not grieve him, for he had already forgotten about 
his aerial journey. A young man a few years his senior had 
detached himself from the groups strolling about the en¬ 
closure and was coming toward him in a purposely non¬ 
chalant manner. It was Lieutenant Clairet. 

He sat down on the bench by his fellow conspirator, who 
affected to take little notice of his arrival. 

''You looked just now as if you were trying to learn the 
stars by daylight,'" observed the newcomer jestingly, andi 
then, lowering his voice, "I expect they are all we shalll 
have to steer by. I can't get hold of a compass anywhere." 

Raoul just glanced at him without removing his head, 
from its resting place against the stockade. " The questiori 
is rather whether Dumont has succeeded in getting that 
map," he returned equally low. For as yet they had 
nothing of that nature to guide them on their way to the 
coast, though they had for some days been trying to buy a 
smuggled map from a fellow prisoner. "Yet, map or no 
map, we must start on Monday, because of Marwin's being 
on sentry duty that night. His next turn is ten days later, 
and by that time the moon will be full." 

"Dumont knows the canals, of course," said Clairet 
doubtfully, "because he was brought by water from Lynn, 
but we cannot use them except as rough guides. It would 
not do to follow them closely." 

" I expect he will succeed in getting the map out of Parisot 


FORGOTTEN? 83 

in the end,” observed Raoul. ‘"Parisot never intended to 
use it himself, and, fortunately for us, Dumont is pretty 
flush of cash.” 

‘^Yes, the old pirate! I think,” said Lieutenant Clairet, 
‘‘that when I reach France I shall resign my commission 
and ship on board a privateer. . . . Talking of priva¬ 
teers, I hear that some of the men in Caserne No. 4, who are 
mostly sailors and privateersmen, are getting rather out of 
hand, and Captain Hanwell has stopped the whole block 
from selling their wares at the market this week. As a 
consequence, more unruliness, and he threatens to get the 
worst black sheep sent to the hulks.” 

“Poor devils!” said Raoul. “Ah, there is the postman.” 

A turnkey with a leather bag had just come through from 
the^ Superintendent's office, which was not far away. 
Clairet got up and went toward the crowd of which the 
man immediately became the centre. After a moment 
Raoul followed him, more because he snatched at anything 
which relieved the tedium of captivity than because he was 
any longer expecting a letter, and he waited, only half at¬ 
tending, on the outskirts of the group. 

To his surprise he heard his name called and elbowed his 
way through the throng to find himself staring, with some¬ 
what quickened pulses, at a letter bearing the Wanfield 
postmark. The handwriting was a lady's. He slipped 
back to his bench, his heart now beating really hard. 

The letter had, of course, been already opened . . . 
and it w;as from Miss Forrest. He read: 

Dear Monsieur des Sablieres: 

I do not know how to write to you. I know the truth now, in spite 
of the rneasures which have been used to keep me in the dark, and 
which did keep me in that condition until yesterday. No words of 
mine can express the shame, the burning indignation, which fill me. 
I implore you to believe that I knew nothing of the duplicity which 
has sent you to such an unmerited captivity. I did not utter the lie 
which I find has been attributed to me: on the contrary. I gave that 
evening an exact recital of what had occurred in Fawley Copse and of 
your gallant behaviour there. Yet, from the sequel, you must have 
been convinced that I had shielded myself at your expense. Oh, 
believe me, such an idea never entered my mind—would that it had 
never entered another’s! 

I am not, however, wasting my time in idle lamentations. I am 
determined that this intolerable injustice shall be repaired, and that 


84 


‘^MR. ROWL” 


you shall be liberated as soon as is possible. I am writing to my 
father to ask him to use all his influence with the Transport Office: 
Mr. Bannister, on the strength of my evidence, has already com¬ 
municated both with the Commissioners and with Norman Cross. 
Meanwhile also I am seeing to it that all Wanfield knows how unjustly 
you have been punished. Mr. Bannister’s relief is great to find that 
you are what he always thought you, Mr. Bentley’s and his daughter’s 
likewise. I do not think the two latter ever doubted it, nor did I, in 
my heart, though circumstances had been made to look very black 
against you. Strangely enough, it was your returning of Rasselas —a 
proceeding which cut me at the moment, as shewing, I thought, your 
opinion of me—which led to the discovery of the truth. 

I have only this to ask of you. Monsieur, that you will keep up 
your spirits and your patience, and believe that she who, as she sadly 
feels, is really responsible for the wrong which has been inflicted on 
you, is doing her utmost to procure its reparation. 

Your friend, 

Juliana Forrest. 

Postscript. Since you will hear it when you return—^as I trust you 
will return—to Wanfield, I think it better to inform you now that 
my engagement is at an end. 


Raoul leant against the stockade and put his hand for a 
moment over his eyes. Now that what he had hoped for 
and then ceased to hope for had really happened he felt al- 
rnost bewildered. The ordeal was over; he was cleared, and 
his friends at Wanfield need no longer be ashamed of him! 

And Miss Forrest had never told even that venial lie! 
Generous girl, to act, to write as she had done! Since he 
had never for a moment believed that she would have 
sacrificed him knowingly, he had afterward regretted that, 
piqued and sore as he was at being so unjustly used, he had 
given way, on leaving Wanfield, to a hasty and not very 
intelligible impulse, and thrust Rasselas into Lamotte’s 
hands with that message. But now it seemed, by its re¬ 
sults, that his rather unworthy little action had been 
happily inspired. It was that, evidently, which had led 
her to make enquiries, to find out that Sir Francis- 

But here Raoul suddenly sat down on the bench, and 
Juliana's letter fluttered to the trodden earth of the prison 
enclosure. He had never fully thought out what, to a girl 
of the disposition which he attributed to Miss Forrest, 
might be the result of discovering that her betrothed had 
stooped to a baseness and a malignity really incredible in a 
gentleman. Well, now he knew what it had meant, and 



FORGOTTEN? 85 

his breath was somewhat taken away by the knowledge. 
He bent down, picked up the letter and re-read the post¬ 
script. There w^ no doubt of it. She had broken her 
marriage over this business—it had changed the course of 
her whole future life. 

As a Frenchman, accustomed to the extremely binding 
nature of a French betrothal, and the difficulties of untying 
it, Raoul was a little horrified. Her discovery of the truth 
had certainly been bought at a heavy price. No; his 
thought changed—^no price could be too heavy to save a 
woman of upright instincts from marrying a man capable 
of what Sir Francis Mulholland had shown himself capable 
of! Miss Forrest was, in the event, fortunate in her escape, 
and in this country, with her position and her looks, she 
would have no lack of other suitors. And he doubted 
whether, from what he had seen, she would cry her eyes out 
for the lover whom she had so promptly dismissed. Yet, 
what an upheaval! 

He sat, with the letter in his hands, staring imseeingly at 
the hated contours of Block No. 8, not spending any 
thoughts, even thoughts of triumph, on the situation which 
must now be Mulholland's at Wanfield, but thinking solely 
of the girl. Yes, she would soon console herself, with a 
better match, even—some rich English lord, no doubt. 
He gave a quick sigh, and put the letter carefully into his 
pocket. 

As he did so Raoul saw the large form of Captain Dumont 
tacking toward him. Captain Dumont had a little of the 
pirate about his appearance, and was reported to display 
on emergency the class of temper and linguistic acquire¬ 
ments indispensable, no doubt, to one of his calling, but his 
usual bearing was that of the typically bluff and jovial sea¬ 
man. He was one of the few officers there who were not 
''broke-paroles.'' As the Indienne, at least when captured, 
carried less than fourteen guns, her captain was not entitled 
to the privilege of parole—from which, indeed, he had self- 
sacrificingly cut himself off by throwing three overboard to 
prevent them from falling into the hands of the enemy. 

He now winked a blue eye set, as to its outer comer, 
amid innumerable creases, and said cheerfully, "Fine morn¬ 
ing, des Sablieres! Had a letter? Lucky dog! We are 


86 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


all in luck . . . for I have got it. So . . He 
rolled on, repeating the wink. The unfinished sentence 
meant, ''There is now nothing to keep us back from Mon¬ 
day's venture." 

But Raoul remained staring after him without moving or 
replying. He had quite forgotten that he was to escape 
the day after to-morrow. . . . But to try to escape 
now would be insanity—more, it would be ingratitude. 
Yet . . . could he withdraw at the eleventh hour? 
He got up at last from the bench with a face vastly more 
troubled, for all the advent of Juliana Forrest's letter, than 
that with which he had watched his cloud an hour ago. 

That evening, in their close little sleeping apartment, he 
soon learnt from his comrades that he could not withdraw. 
The idea of the escape taking place without him was re¬ 
ceived by them with incredulity, with consternation, and 
then with an indignation which, in Captain Dumont's case, 
began very soon to warm into anger. And Clairet was not 
conciliatory. 

''And so," he exclaimed, "you are content to wait while 
strings are pulled for you—^to wait indefinitely, perhaps for 
ever? What has come to you, des Sablieres?" 

"I am not afraid, if that is what you are thinking," re¬ 
torted Raoul, firing up a little. "I have told you exactly 
the position I am in. Is it so difficult to understand?" 

"No," said Dumont starkly. "It's not. Everyone for 
his o^ skin, and I'll call no man white-livered unless he 
has given better cause for it than a natural wish to care for 
that. But there are two of us, and only one of you. Captain 
des Sablieres, and I reckon two skins are worth more than 
one. Or perhaps, seeing that you are a noble by birth, and 
we ain't, you coimt it quits, me and Lieutenant Clairet 
against you?" 

"You know I think nothing of the sort. Captain Du¬ 
mont!" answered Raoul hotly. "And my birth has noth¬ 
ing to do with the matter!" 

"Come," put in Clairet pacifically, "all this is off the 
point. I'm sure that if des Sablieres thinks it over-" 

"Thinks it over! He don't need to! Why, I believe, 
damn my eyes," said Captain Dumont with an angry laugh, 
"that neither of you youngsters has seen the real reason 


FORGOTTEN? 87 

why we must have him, willing or unwilling. He’s the only 
one of us who speaks English!” 

And when, by the way in which both yoimg men gazed 
blankly at him, the master of the Indienne saw that he was 
right, he slapped his knee with delight, and the threatened 
simoon blew over. 

^^‘IVe got you there, young fellow!’^ he said to the recal¬ 
citrant fugitive, and slapped him next. *^You can^t back 
out when you know that Clairet and I might just as well 
he snug in our beds on Monday night as start through two 
English counties without you to do the parleying.'" 

Yes, said Raoul, swallowing down with as good a grace 
as he could his irritation and disappointment. ‘^Yes 
you've certainly got me there. I confess I never thought 
of that point. Of course I will come, and willingly. Forget 
that I ever proposed anything else." 

Captain Dumont made a large gesture. ‘^It is already 
forgotten," he said magnanimously. ‘'And if you supply 
the lingo, des Sablieres, I can supply a fist." He doubled 
that formidable object as he spoke. 

‘‘Which will not, I hope, be required," put in Clairet 
quickly. “The last weapon we want to employ. Captain, 
is violence. It is a very undiplomatic one in the hands of 
a fugitive." 

“You wait, my lad, till you are in need of it, and you 
won't think it undiplomatic then! Well, this little matter 
being settled, I shall turn in." 

Clairet lingered a moment by Raoul's bed as the latter 
also began to undress. “ You know," he said in a low voice, 
“it is really much better, for your own sake, to come with 
us. There have been other cases here for whom representa¬ 
tions have been made to the Transport Board—poor 
Hazard, for instance; he has been waiting nearly three years 
for their result." 

Raoul at this moment was pulling his shirt over his 
head and made no immediate answer. When he emerged 
he said briefly: “I have no doubt you are right. At any 
rate, I am coming with you." 

It was the question of a letter to Miss Forrest, not this' 
imminent adventure, which chiefly engaged his thoughts 


‘‘MR. ROWL” 


88 

next day. He could write and thank her, it was true, but 
he could not possibly say the thing he wanted to say—that, 
ungrateful and foolish as he must appear, he was only 
carrying out this escape because he was already committed 
to it, for in a letter which would be read by the authorities 
he could obviously make no reference, even veiled, to a 
project of flight. In the end he decided that he would wait 
to write imtil he was clear of Norman Cross.^ 

But it was plain that he would never see Juliana Forrest's 
face again. Reinstatement and release, such as she was 
working for, might have meant return to Wanfield, but 
successful escape meant leaving England altogether . . . 
and imsuccessful would mean Norman Cross for ever, or 
removal to another prison—^perhaps to one of the big new 
depots in Scotland, Valleyfield or Perth. If he were retaken 
he would certainly never be allowed out again on parole 
while his captivity lasted. Yet the more he knew that it 
was impossible, the more keen was his desire to see her once 
more, not only to thank her from his heart for what she had 
done, not only to ask her to let him have back as a memento 
(really to be kept this time) that book which, indirectly, 
had been the cause of everything, but . . . just for the 
sake of seeing her. 

Yes, he would like to talk to Juliana Forrest once again. 
Not by the stream; in the garden at Northover, where they 
had spoken once or twice when the daffodils were out under 
the cedars. He wondered what flowers were blooming there 
now—one knew nothing of flowers here. ... He 
would like to see the garden at Northover again, and now 
he never would. 

But at this point Raoul pulled himself up. He, a soldier, 
regretting his captivity because it had been pleasant! He 
was indeed growing soft! Here, with the chance before 
him of breathing once more the air of France, he was senti¬ 
mentally thinking of the charms of England . . . and 
of an Englishwoman! But surely he had the right to wish 
to thank her who had championed him, and the most fervid 
Anglophobe could not blame him for that desire. 

The chosen day, Monday, dawned at last. Raoul, wak¬ 
ing early, looked in the dim light at his sleeping companions 
and wondered where they would all be by next morning—if 


FORGOTTEN? 


89 


they were all three still alive. It was quite on the cards that 
one of them would get a bullet through the head, for the 
sentries were numerous, and armed with ball cartridge. 

It was a day of tension for all of them, and passed with 
cruel slowness—^but it did pass. Dumont was unusually 
noisy and cheerful at supper, the more so that there was a 
rumour going about that the sentries were likely to be 
doubled that night in the vicinity of Caserne No. 4, the 
mutinous block, and he thought that in consequence the 
officers’ quarters might be less closely guarded. But 
Raoul and Clairet pointed out that the Brigade Major (who, 
and not the Agent Superintendent, was responsible for the 
military arrangements of the prison—a dual control not 
always of the most happy) had plenty of men to post as 
extra sentries. And if he did withdraw any from their 
comer of the d^pot, might not Marwin conceivably be one 
of them? If so, what of the rope for which he had made 
himself responsffile? 

... Five hours later, when they were actually steal¬ 
ing in the dark along the ditch at the foot of the great wall, 
that was indeed the vital question. To Raoul, the foremost, 
feeling vainly along the brickwork for that indispensable 
adjunct, it seemed a cruel irony to be baulked at the last 
stage of all after having overcome their other difficulties— 
after having squeezed through the ventilator, climbed safely 
down the rickety pipe outside the caserne and over the 
pointed palisade, and after having avoided (more by luck 
than skill) the many sentries posted between it and the 
wall. And then, suddenly, his hand encountered what he 
sought. 

It was a good stout rope, knotted at intervals. He gave 
it a hard tug. It seemed securely fastened to something 
on the other side, and in a whisper Raoul communicated 
this information to his comrades. 

It had been arranged that he was to go last, because, 
being the lightest, he would probably have least difficulty 
in swarming up the rope when its end was free; so he was 
first to steady it for his heavier companions. As the wall 
was only nine feet high on its outer side (its greater height 
on the inner being due to the excavation of the fosse at its 
base) the fugitives, once up, could drop the distance. Du- 


90 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


mont the sailor went first, and had soon arrived at the top, 
in spite of his corpulence; yet, dark as the night was, his 
bulk seemed to Raoul to be plainly visible against the sky 
on the crest of the wall, and his arrival on the ground the 
other side was announced by a rather telltale thud. Clairet 
followed quickly; his drop was inaudible. Then Raoul 
went up, the rope spinning as he climbed, straddled the 
wall, saw their up toned faces very dimly below him, and 
dropped lightly beside them. There was no sign of Mar- 
win, nor, at the moment, of any of his comrades. Surely 
some sentries had been removed! 

“Don’t wait!” whispered Raoul, his mouth at Clairet’s 
ear. “I will overtake you in a moment. I promised not 
to leave the rope about.” 

He hauled the slack over the wall to him, and, as the 
others vanished, stooped to feel in the darkness how the end 
was secured at its foot. He could easily have cut it off 
without ascertaining this, but in that case the knot, re¬ 
maining, might perhaps bring complicity home to Marwin 
—a serious business for a sentry. Moreover, he had given 
his word. 

Confound the fellow, whatever was this he had fastened 
it to, right down in the grass at the base of the wall? The 
essential need of haste made Raoul’s fingers clumsy. He 
would have to cut the rope, after all. Kneeling on one 
knee, he put his hand into his pocket for a small knife which 
he had contrived to retain in spite of regulations , . . 

and the next instant was almost blinded by the glare of a 
suddenly opened lantern. 


CHAPTER II 

THE SHADOW OF HUNTINGDON GAOL 

“I knew not to what condition we were doomed, nor could conjecture 
where would be the place of our captivity, or whence to draw any hope 
of deliverance.”— Rasselas, chap, xxxviii. 

The voice said, “No, not to-day. To-morrow, perhaps. 
I will let you know. Sir.’' 

Streaks and circles of alternate light and darkness swirled 
incessantly under Raoul’s closed lids. The light was of a 
reddish tinge. “Not to-day . . . not to-day . . 
the words went on reverberating in his brain—but only as 
sounds. They had no meaning. “To-morrow, perhaps, 
, . . to-morrow . . . to-morrow . . .” 

What was “to-morrow”? And this sensation in his 
head, what was it? Had he always had it? But who was 
he himself . . . and where? 

A feeling as if he were floating upward brought the con¬ 
viction of water . . . drowning. Yes—the crossing 
of the Gebora in the mist of a February morning before the 
battle ... his horse must have been swept away . . . 
the river had been in flood the previous day. But there 
was no water in his mouth or nostrils—he could breathe. 

He could see! He found his eyes open and lay blinking. 
But he was not seeing what he expected—sky, the corktrees, 
the slope where Mendizabal’s army lay. He saw white¬ 
washed walls, with highset windows, and beds, rows of 
beds, mostly empty. It was in a bed that he lay himself. 
Hospital, then . . . but where? Salamanca? 

He tried to lift his head a little in order to see more, but 
the pain (now localized at the back) became so acute that he 
drew a sharp breath and desisted, and involuntarily shut 
his eyes again. But after a moment he put up a hand to 
this head and found that something was tied round it. 

91 


92 ‘^MR. ROWL^' 

Was that why it hurt so? He was inclined to think that it 
was. 

His mind began to grope backward, and gradually he 
came to the conclusion that he could not be in Spain be¬ 
cause he remembered coming to England . . . being 
at Wanfield . . . then at Norman Cross. That was 
where he was, then. But of recent events at Norman 
Cross he could recall nothing since a certain supper when 
Dumont had been so hilarious. Was it possible that he 
himself had got dnmk on that occasion, whenever it was? 
But there had been nothing to get drunk on, that he could 
remember. He was beginning to explore his head more 
carefully, when he heard steps approaching him, and 
opened his eyes once more. 

A lanky, sandy-haired young man came and stood looking 
down at him, and finally took hold of his wrist and felt his 
pulse. 

'‘How does your head feel now?^' he enquired after a 
moment. 

“It hurts,'' answered Raoul. “Why is that? And if I 
move it. . . ." 

“There is a very good reason for its hurting," replied the 
young man. “ Don't you remember it? " 

Raoul incautiously tried to shake his head on the pillow, 
and succeeded only too well. He gave an exclamation. 
But his mind continued to grope. 

“Am I still at Norman Cross?" he asked, gazing fixedly 
at his visitor. 

“Yes, in the officers' hospital." 

“Why?" 

“Good Lord, you ask why? . . . Because you were 
attempting to escape last night and—^and got a thundering 
knock on the head in doing so. You must possess a re¬ 
markably hard skull, or it would have cracked," said the 
lanky young man in a tone of admiration. 

“Perhaps I do," agreed Raoul unenthusiastically, and 
loiit his brows in a fresh effort to remember. “Escap¬ 
ing . . . ^ Was I alone?" 

“I say," ejaculated the young man, “have you genuinely 
forgotten? . . . No, there were two others with you, 
and, so far, they have got away. I don't know their 


THE SHADOW OF HUNTINGDON GAOL 93 


names, but they were your room-mates at No. 8. You are 
supposed to have got out by the ventilator. You remem¬ 
ber that, surely? ” 

No,” replied Raoul. I remember nothing since supper 
last night—if it was last night? ” 

‘Terhaps that is as well,” said the yoimg man to himself. 
The tone struck Raoul, but he did not enquire into its 
meaning. 

"'Are you the doctor?” he next asked. 

"No, only his assistant. My name's Wanklin. But 
Doctor Walker was here himself a short time ago—^you did 
not hear him speaking to Captain Hanwell, I suppose, for 
you seemed to be still unconscious then. They were at the 
foot of your bed, however.” 

"The Superintendent himself! What was he doing 
here?” 

"‘Well, you see, he's ... he wants to ask you some 
Questions.” 

"Oh,” commented Raoul wearily. "Not much good, is 
it, if I cannot remember anything? ” 

"That, of course, is what Doctor Walker said. At 
least, he said that you would not be fit to answer them to¬ 
day, though he did not, naturally, know that you had lost 
your memory. So the Superintendent had to go away 
again. We of the hospital staff, you know,” added Mr. 
Wanklin, smoothing his carroty locks with an air, "are 
not technically under his control. We have our warrants 
from the Sick and Hurt Board, not from the Transport 
Office.” 

"Then I hope the Sick and Hurt Board will not allow 
Captain Hanwell to pester me with questions about the 
other two, because I shall tell him nothing . . . and 
my head aches,” finished Raoul rather peevishly. 

"I don't think it is about the other two that he wants to 
ask you questions,” said Mr. Wanklin, and again his tone 
was so odd that Raoul this time was about to ask him what 
he meant, when a voice from a distant bed was heard sum¬ 
moning the budding surgeon, and he hurried off. And, in a 
little, Raoul, after vainly beating that blank brain of his, 
and realizing that the worst had happened—^unsuccessful 
escape—drifted off into a comfortless sleep. 


94 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


When he woke again it seemed by the light to be a good 
deal later. The pain in his head was much less, but still he 
could remember nothing of the actual escape. But now his 
mind was invaded by another subject, Miss Forrest's letter; 
and mingled with thoughts of that came crowding in the 
often-discussed details of that plan of escape which, evi¬ 
dently, they had put into practice last night. . . . Yes, 
he remembered now the endless debates, the feverish prep¬ 
arations. , . . Well, the other two had been lucky, 
but he—^he had indeed defeated all Miss Forrest's plans for 
his welfare! And France, freedom, his parents were all as 
far off as ever. 

An attendant came with some food—a little meat and 
potatoes—and placed it on a chair beside him, and Raoul 
realized that he was hungry. He fed himself with some 
difficulty, though if he moved his head cautiously he no 
longer suffered such shoots and stabs of pain. Aiid soon 
after the plate had been removed he observed an individual 
whom he judged to be the surgeon himself walk down the 
ward and come to his bed. He was about sixty, gray¬ 
haired, upright, somewhat severe-looking. 

He bent over Raoul, felt his pulse, looked into his eyes, 
and then sat down beside him. 

understand that you speak English, Captain des 
Sablieres?" 

‘^Yes, Sir." 

‘Hs your head still troubling you?" 

‘'Not nearly so much—very little if I keep still." 

“I am glad to hear it. Mr. Wanklin tells me that you 
can remember nothing since supper last night." 

“No, Sir." 

“Have you made the effort?" 

“Yes." 

“You can recall nothing of the circumstances of your 
escape?" 

“No, Sir, nothing." 

“You were found unconscious on the outer side of the 
wall. How did you come there?" 

“I have no recollection. I remember how we—I— 
planned to surmount it . . . but I have no recollection 
of doing it." 


THE SHADOW OF HUNTINGDON GAOL 95 

“Nor of what happened on the other side?” The doctor 
was looking at him very searchingly. 

]] No. I suppose I was stunned by a blow—or did I fall? 

“You were stunned by a blow from a musket—eventu¬ 
ally. It is a great pity that it did not happen at once.’' 

Raoul stared at him in bewilderment. What was this 
mystery at which Mr. Wanklin, too, had hinted? “Why do 
you say that, Sir?” he asked. ‘‘It would be very kind to 
tell me exactly what happened on the other side of the wall, 
for I have not the slightest idea. I daresay you do not be¬ 
lieve that, but it is true.” 

“As a medical man, M. des Sablieres,” replied Doctor 
Walker gravely, “I am inclined to believe that you are 
speaking the truth. It will therefore, I am afraid, be all 
the greater shock to you to learn that you are in danger of 
having to stand your trial for murder, and, but that you are 
obviously unfit for it, ought properly to be either in the 
Black Hole of this d4p6t or in Huntingdon Gaol.” 

“Mwrder/” gasped Raoul, like one suddenly immersed in 
water. “ In God’s name, whose murder? ” 

Doctor Walker looked at him very keenly before replying. 

“The sentinel’s,” he said at length. “The sentinel who 
came up and discovered you. There was a struggle, in 
which you bayoneted him, and were then felled yourself— 
for that is more probable than that he dealt you the blow 
first. At any rate, the man is in a most critical state, and if 
he dies-” 

“But it is impossible!” exclaimed Raoul, horror-struck. 

“I never bayoneted any one, I swear it! I-” He 

stopped. 

“I thought that you did not remember anything!” com¬ 
mented Doctor Walker drily.* 

There was a long silence. Raoul, after staring at him as 
if he could not remove his gaze, put a hand to his head, then, 
with a little sound like a groan, covered his eyes with it. 
The colour flared up hot in his face, then died as suddenly 
away. 

“Do you think. Sir, that I can have done it and have for¬ 
gotten?’’ he enquired at last, in a strangely submissive 
voice, visibly very pale now that the hand was removed. 

“To be perfectly frank with you,” replied the doctor, 


96 


‘^MR. ROWL^’ 


leaning back in the chair in a somewhat judicial manner, 

I think there are great difficulties in the way of your hav¬ 
ing done it at all. It is highly improbable that you could 
have run the sentinel through after a blow from which eight 
hours’ unconsciousness and partial loss of memory have en¬ 
sued. On the other hand, if you did it before you received 
the blow, then it is almost equally inconceivable that the 
imfortunate man can have had sufficient strength to 
wrest the musket from you again and to deliver one so 
heavy. I know, of course,” he went on, “that you had two 
companions, and common-sense would point to their hav¬ 
ing stabbed him and made off. For you must understand 
that no one witnessed the affray; when the other sentinels, 
attracted by this man’s feeble cries, came up, they found 
you both lying there, you quite senseless, and he nearly so. 
But, unfortunately for you. Captain ^ des Sablieres, the 
wounded man was able, before relapsing into an uncon¬ 
sciousness from which he may never emerge again, to make a 
fragmentary statement by which it appears that it is you, 
and not either of your companions, whom he charges with 
the deed. If he recovers sufficiently this statement can be 
sifted, but if he dies, I am afraid it will go hard with you.” 

A second silence fell. This was worse than any mere 
recapture—worse than anything Raoul could have im¬ 
agined. He gripped his hands together hard under the bed¬ 
clothes. 

“What would happen to me?” 

“You would have to stand your trial at Huntingdon 
Assizes. Killing and forgery—even in the case of military 
prisoners—come under the cml law.” 

“Then ... if I were convicted ... I should 
not be shot?” 

“No,” said Doctor Walker gravely, “you would not be 
shot.” 

A little involuntary shudder ran over the young officer, 
and he turned his bandaged head away. 

The doctor bent forward and put a hand on his shoulder. 
“You are not in Huntingdon Gaol yet,” he said. “This is 
not the moment that I should have chosen to break such 
serious news to a patient, but I thought it right to let you 
know how you stand, before Captain HanweU questions 


THE SHADOW OF HUNTINGDON GAOL 97 

you. I may as well warn you that he is, not unnaturally, 
extremely incensed, and the Brigade-Major likewise, so 
much so, indeed, that I had considerable difficulty in saving 
you from the Black Hole, unconscious as you were—for 
you are no doubt aware that an officer caught trying to 
escape is liable to be treated exactly as one of the men. 
However, I would not have that, nor, I promise you, shall 
I allow you to be interrogated before I consider you fit for 
it, and, if possible, not until your memory has returned— 
which I think may occur at any moment now.'' 

“You are much too kind to me, Sir," said Raoul, moved. 
“ If I have done what the man says . . . and perhaps, 
in a moment of madness, I may have done it . . 

His voice stuck in his throat. 

“Tut, tut!" said Doctor Walker with a little smile. 
“You see, I do not believe you did—not from any acquain¬ 
tance with your character, but because I think it is physically 
impossible. Now if your companions are recaptured-" 

“Oh, I am sure they could not have done it!" cried Raoul, 
alarmed. “They would never have been so foolish . . . 
I remember hearing Lieutenant Clairet strongly deprecat¬ 
ing violence." 

“Ah, you can remember something on behalf of a friend, 
can you?" remarked Doctor Walker, with a little note of ap¬ 
preciation in his tone. ''Still, theory and practice are two 
different things, and, as one of you three must have done it, 
I think that you personally would be in a better position if 
they were recaptured, and I should pray for it, if I were 
you." And he went away without giving Raoul time to 
reply. 

Murder! They said he had done, or attempted, murder! 
And, for all he knew, they might be right. Alternately 
panic-struck and unbelieving, Raoul spent the rest of that 
miserable day trying to batter down the closed door of 
memory. One or two of the other prisoners in the ward 
addressed him and condoled with him, but the place was 
unusually empty, and most of the occupied beds were too 
far away for conversation, and some of their occupants too 
ill. The successful escape of Dumont and Clairet afforded 
general gratification, though it was considered very un¬ 
fortunate that des Sablieres had been left to pay the penalty 


98 


^^MR. ROWL^’ 


of their assault on the sentry—^for those who had overheard 
the doctor's opinion shared it, and one patient told Raoul 
that he had never seen a man who looked less capable of 
bayoneting anybody than he when he was carried in about 
midnight. “I thought the deadhouse was the proper 
place for you," concluded this observer. 

/‘It niust have come back in my sleep. Sir," said Raoul 
with animation. “When I woke this morning I found I 
remembered everything." 

“Everything?" queried Doctor Walker, standing beside 
his bed. It was the following morning. “How much does 
that include?" 

“Oh, not what the authorities think," replied the young 
man, almost cheerfully. “The last thing—but one—that 
I reniember is the flash of a lantern in my face as I was 
kneeling at the foot of the wall trying to—^well, kneeling 
there; the last thing of all is a smashing blow on the back 
of my head before I had time to rise. I must have gone 
down like a log. And there it ends—though I daresay 
Captain Han well will not believe me." 

The surgeon looked down at the bright and candid eyes 
below the bandage. 

“You vdll be able to put that to the test very shortly," 
he said. “He is coming up here to interrogate you at half¬ 
past nine, unless I pronounce you unfit for it." 

“Please let him come. Sir," urged Raoul. “I would 
rather get it over . . . if I may know two things—how 
the injured sentinel does, and whether my two companions 
have been recaptured? " 

“The sentinel is still alive; that is all one can say No 
your comrades have not been taken, so far. And if vou are 
not, one of them is guilty." ^ 

“ph, not necessarily," said Raoul stoutly. “Another 
sentinel may have bayoneted the poor man in the darkness 
or he may have impaled himself on his own hnvnnAf ' 



Hanwell when he, with the Brigade Major, came to inter- 
jnew him about an hour later. He meant it as a real contri¬ 
bution to the problem, but it seemed to be regarded as cul- 


THE SHADOW OF HUNTINGDON GAOL 99 

pable persiflage, and he could see that it had done him no 
good in the eyes of the frowning authorities, particularly in 
those of the military one. His emphatic denial that he had 
attacked the sentry, his asseveration that the latter, on the 
contrary, had put him out of action before he could even 
think of defending himself were, as he had half expected, 
treated as negligible against the testimony of the injured 
man himself. And his case was not advanced by his re¬ 
fusal to give, not only any information about his escaped 
comrades’ probable whereabouts (which, to do them jus¬ 
tice, the inquisitors seemed scarcely to expect) but about 
his supposed accomplice in the garrison either—as yet, 
apparently, undetected, in spite of the telltale rope. 

It was a rather exhausted offender who lay back on the 
pillows when this ordeal was over. But the unspeakably 
blessed relief of knowing that the blood of the unfortunate 
militiaman did not lie at his door had upborne him won¬ 
derfully, and he could not believe that, if the latter died, 
the supreme penalty would really be exacted from an in¬ 
nocent man, even in an enemy’s country. 

So when Wanklin approached him afterwards, his large 
pale-blue eyes full of a somewhat horrified interest, Raoul 
observed with a jocularity that was only three parts 
forced: 

“I suppose you feel that you are enjoying the privilege 
of looking at a condemned criminal, Mr. Wanklin?” 

“If you really did not do it, des Sablieres, you are in a 
devilish tight hole,” responded this Job’s comforter with 
so much of simple awe in his tone that one could not credit 
him with malice. 

“Are you of opinion, then, that I should be in a more 
enviable position if I had done it?” 

Wanklin scratched his chin. “No, not exactly. But 
if a . . . if a man’s got to swing it might as well be for 

something.” 

“I had not thought of that,” returned Raoul quite 
gravely. “In that case I had better-” 

“You know, I daresay,” went on Wanklin without letting 
him finish, “that about five years ago a prisoner was con¬ 
demned at the Assizes over a matter like this—only it was 
a turnkey in his case—and he was hanged . . . hanged 


100 


MR. ROWL 


here, too. It was quite an occasion, I believe—^all the garri¬ 
son under arms, all the prisoners made to be present. He 
was an officer as well—^name of Boucher or something of the 
sort.’' 

“Well, I hope that you will secure a good place when I 
afford Norman Cross a holiday of that kind,” returned 
Raoul. “Though I gather that you will then harbour re¬ 
gret that I had no fim for my money, only a knock on the 
head.” 

The good Wanklin looked uncomfortable. “I don’t 
think you ought to jest about it, des Sablieres—indeed I 
don’t.” 

“Why, what else is there to do?” demanded Raoul. 

What, indeed, as he privately asked himself, when the 
other two, who had coerced him into flight by the plea 
of their dependence on his knowledge of English, were, 
evidently, getting on out there quite well without it, while 
he was left behind to bear the brunt of their ill-usage of 
the sentry! Not that Raoul blamed them; the turn of 
affairs was just the fortune of war, but he could not be blind 
to its irony. Even if he escaped the dock, he would cer¬ 
tainly be punished somehow, and never would he see Wan- 
fleld again, however much that kind and generous girl ex¬ 
erted herself on his behalf. And by evening he learnt that 
the sentry, though still alive, had not made any different 
deposition about the identity of his assailant. Yes, it was 
an ironical, though hardly a mirth-provoking situation. 

Next morning Raoul asked if he might get up, and, hav¬ 
ing received permission to do so for a while in the afternoon, 
arose and dressed himself with the assistance of a French 
hospital orderly. He was obliged, of course, to resume his 
uniform. Too giddy to walk about, he contented himself 
with sitting in the stiff chair beside his bed and observing the 
ward and its occupants, which he was now in a better posi¬ 
tion to do. He counted eighteen beds each side, of which 
only ten were filled. All but two of the patients, moreover, 
were asleep. Wanklin was sitting beside one of them, and 
there was not a sound in the long room save the buzzing of 
an imprisoned bluebottle. 

Suddenly the big door of the ward was flung open and an 


THE SHADOW OF HUNTINGDON GAOL 101 


officer came briskly in followed by a sergeant who, how¬ 
ever, remained at the door. Raoiil tried to stand up, and 
succeeded for a second, but was obliged to sit down again 
on his bed, his head swam so. The officer marched up to 
Wanklin, now in the middle of the ward. 

‘'As the prisoner des Sablieres is not to be sent to 
Huntingdon Gaol for the present he may stay here, on ac¬ 
count of his condition,” he announced. “ He is, of course, to 
be treated strictly as a prisoner—^as a dangerous prisoner.” 

“But I can't be responsible for him. Captain,” replied 
Mr. Wanklin rather helplessly. 

“ Oh, your task will be made as light as possible,” said the 
officer. “Sergeant!” 

The sergeant advanced, pulling from his tunic something 
that jangled. The officer made a gesture, and the other 
wheeled and came down between the beds to Raoul. But 
Raoul, when he saw the handcuffs, started up and away 
until he was stopped by the chair and the wall. 

“ Put them on! ” said the officer sharply, and, coming to the 
foot of the bed, addressed Raoul in person. “It is a con¬ 
cession your being allowed to stay in hospital at all. But if 
you prefer the Black Hole you have only to say so.” 

“No,” said Raoul faintly; and, overcome by a double 
nausea, he sat down on the bed again and held out his 
hands. A wave of scarlet ran over his colourless face as the 
manacles clicked into position about his wrists. The 
officer watched the sergeant lock them, and then without 
more words took himseK off again, followed by his sub¬ 
ordinate. 

Raoul sat stupidly on the side of his bed and watched 
them go. Then he looked down at his fettered hands. He 
remained so long in this posture that Wanklin came up and 
touched him on the shoulder. 

“Lie down on your bed again,” he counselled. “You'll 
get used to those things—^though it is a shame to put them 
on—you'll find that you are not by any means helpless in 
them.” 

Raoul raised the same rather stunned white face, and 
after a moment clumsily obeyed him, and lay there shiver¬ 
ing—^not with cold. Wanklin fetched a blanket and spread 
it over him, and he lay huddled up, his hands eloping 


102 


“MR. ROWL^’ 


each other as though to assure himself that their close prox¬ 
imity was voluntary. The touch of those abhorred irons 
brought home to him what he was now—no longer a prisoner 
of war but a criminal. He knew that there was a murmur 
of sympathy and indignation among the awakened oc¬ 
cupants of the ward, but it did not help him. He was 
degraded in his own estimation. That he knew himseK in¬ 
nocent did not help him, either; in fact, a cold doubt of his 
innocence, of the value of his own memory began to invade 
him. . . . 

When Doctor Walker heard the news that evening he 
looked grave. 

“I don't like that done in the hospital," he said, dis¬ 
pleased. “But I am afraid that in this case it is the only 
alternative to the Black Hole." 

“Could I not," asked Raoul, with his eyes on the floor, 
“could I not have them taken off for part of the time—at 
night, perhaps—if I gave my word not to take advantage of 
it? I would give you my word of honour. Sir." 

The elder man looked at him half pityingly, half sternly. 

“I have no power to accept it, M. des Sablieres. And 
have you a right to expect any one to take it?" 

Whether or no he were referring to his lost estate as a 
reputed parole-breaker, Raoul was utterly silenced by this 
rebuff, and when Doctor Walker had gone away he rolled 
over and lay with his face hidden in the pillow. 

The others, respecting his mood, did not speak to him. 
His supper was taken away imtouched. He was too sore in 
spirit to make the first attempt to eat in his shacldes before 
the eyes of the other patients, ludicrous as he felt the spec¬ 
tacle must necessarily be. And as the evening wore on he 
lay fighting down the mad impulse to try to tear the links 
apart by main force. It surged over him in waves, and he 
knew that if he gave way to it he was lost. Yet when, 
hours later, he had got the better of it and sleep was begin¬ 
ning to come to him, he would move and the constraint 
catch his wrists and rouse him afresh to the realization of 
what he wore. 

When he woke in the morning he was lying on his back 
with his hands crossed on his breast after the fashion of a 
dead man—as he would really lie, perhaps, after he had 


THE SHADOW OF HUNTINGDON GAOL 103 

made a spectacle, like that other officer, for Norman Cross. 

But the morning light had brought a hardening of resolu¬ 
tion. He told himself that he had behaved like a child 
yesterday—like a guilty man, it might be. Whatever was 
coming on him he would face with more courage than that. 
He forced himself to eat his breakfast, clumsily as he did it; 
and afterwards, observing to Wanklin that, if he had to go as 
far as Himtingdon, it was time he learnt to walk straight 
about the ward, rose up and essayed to do so. He staggered 
a little at first, but after a few turns found his head much 
steadier. Subdued congratulations greeted him from the 
other beds, and he acknowledged them; the doctor, too, 
when he came, approved of his perambulations. He also 
told him that the sentry was slightly better. 

Just before he left he came up to Raoul, now sitting 
patiently by the side of his bed again, and asked him 
whether he would like to do a kind action, and when Raoul 
looked astonished at the request, said, walking meanwhile 
with him to a door at the end of the ward: ''There is a 
poor young fellow in this little room who will never come 
out of hospital. I put him in here because it is quiet, but I 
am afraid that it is sometimes too quiet for him. He is dy¬ 
ing of consumption. Would you like to go in and see him? 
It pleases him to have visitors—^when he is fit for it.'^ 

Raoul looked down at his wrists. "But a visitor in 
handcuffs?'' 

" I have told him about that," said Doctor Walker. 

"Will you tell him also, please," said Raoul very quietly, 
but looking the surgeon straight in the face, "that I am not 
a 'broke-parole,' for all that I was sent here as one?" 

Doctor Walker evidently understood very well that this 
pronouncement was meant for him rather than for his 
patient. He gave a little dry smile. "Would it surprise 
you to hear that that has already been done. Captain des 
Sablieres?" And before Raoul, rather taken aback, could 
answer, he had opened the door, and the visitor went in. 

He forgot his fettered hands when he looked at the bed, 
at the young, virile, but inexpressibly wasted face on the 
pillow, whose lips gave him a faint and sweet smile like 
autumn sunshine and spoke in a voice like the whisper of 
autumn leaves. 


104 


‘^MR. ROWL” 


‘"How kind of you to come! I have books—^Monsieur le 
docteur is so good to me—^but not many visitors. Will you 
not sit down? I have heard of your misfortune, but I am 

sure you-A fit of coughing shook him. He made or 

seemed to make a motion towards a glass on the table and 
Raoul gave it to him—^with both hands. 

^^You see how clever you are, Monsieur!” resumed the 
phantom voice. ^‘Now, talk to me, if you will be so good 
. . . about yourself . . . about France. I am 
from the Pyrenees. And you?” 

Soon they were deep in converse, and the thin fingers stray¬ 
ing over Raoul’s irons. '‘You will be free—yes, you will be 
free before very long. But I think I shall be free before you 
. . . I am so much better, and when I am well enough 
to travel I am going to be exchanged; the cartel is already 
made out. And I shall see the mountains again, and the 
colour of the gaves that tumble down them—^there is no 
water in the world like theirs—^and the snows . . . and 
the little Templar church up at Luz, where I was bom. 

. . . Yes, I think I shall see them.” 

He was seeing them now, his bright eyes fixed on the 
bare wall. When Raoul left him, he found tears in his own. 

That evening, as he sat on the side of his bed trying to 
nerve himself to another night of discomfort, Wanklin came 
up to him with an air of great mystery. 

“Would you like to have those handcuffs off for the night, 
des Sablieres? ” 

“Would I like the moon, Mr. Wanklin?” 

The young man sat down beside him on the bed, and 
showed in his palm a small msty key, at which Raoul 
stared uncomprehendingly. 

I picked it up months ago—^had no idea what it was^ 
don t know why I kept it. I suddenly remembered it this 
afternoon, and it looks so much like the one the sergeant 
... Let me see.” He bent over Raoul’s wrists and 
inserted the key. It fitted. 

But Raoul drew his hands away. “No, no—^you will get 
into trouble if I am found with these off, and I might be.” 

“Not in the night! Come, now!” 

“A ^ard might come for me then, or early in the morn¬ 
ing. And it might be traced to you.” 



THE SHADOW OF HUNTINGDON GAOL 105 

But, with a resolution which one would not have ex¬ 
pected of him, Mr. Wanklin seized the prisoner's hands 
again. The key resisted, turned, and the liberator wrenched 
one of the handcuffs open. 

''What have you done?" said Raoul, half aghast. 

"Diddled the Transport Office," replied Mr. Wanklin in 
high glee. " Of course, I should be glad if you would give me 
your word not to—^you know!" 

"I swear not to move from this bed. You're a good 
fellow to trust me, Wanklin." He cautiously stretched 
out his cramped arms. " My God, it's like heaven!—\^at, 
the other one, too?" 

The bliss of being able to thrust a hand anywhere under 
the pillow that night without the other's having perforce to 
follow it! Excellent, foolish, good-hearted Wanklin! Raoul 
fell asleep and dreamt that he was trjdng to induce that 
bold spirit to follow him out of the ventilator in Number 8. 

But when his accomplice came to lock his fetters again 
next morning his exhilaration seemed to have evaporated; 
in fact, he looked distinctly glum. 

"What is the matter?" asked Raoul, discreetly tendering 
him his wrists under the bedclothes. "I hope you have 
not been getting into trouble over this business already?" 

"Oh, no," responded Mr. Wanklin. "Nobody knows 
about it. There is nothing the matter." 

But Raoul, unconvinced, supposed that he had some 
private vexation, the more so that, his mission accomplished, 
Mr. Wanklin hurried away and did not come near him again. 
Doctor Walker was late in making his rounds that morning, 
and evidently pressed for time when he did appear, but, 
though he did not visit Raoul, the latter was aware of the 
rather strange glance which he cast upon him as he hurried 
out of the ward. When he was gone it occurred to the pris¬ 
oner to wonder very uncomfortably whether the sentry 
whose condition kept him in such continual uncertainty 
were worse. The orderlies, being prisoners themselves, 
would not know, and now Mr. Wanklin, too, had vanished. 
Well, if the man died he would hear it soon enough! 

The soimd of coughing coming through the door at the 
other end of the ward reminded him of Lenepveu, the con¬ 
sumptive, friendly and lonely in there, so he went in to pay 


106 


‘‘MR. ROWL^^ 


him a visit and forget his own uneasiness. The d 3 ring man 
looked ghastly this morning, but he was more full of hope 
and plans than ever, and talked of the day, now so near (he 
said) when he should land in Brittany—^for Morlaix was the 
cartel port with England—and of what route he should take 
to the Pyrenees. . . . 

“And your affairs. Monsieur, how do they go?''^ 

“I do not know,"' answered Raoul. “But I think I am 
not yet free of the shadow of Huntingdon Gaol." 

Lenepveu shook his head with an air of knowledge. “Ah, 
no, you will not go to an English gaol. I think of you—I see 
you—on the sea. Yet I shall be free before you. . . ." 

At this moment Mr. Wanklin put his head into the room. 

“You are wanted, des Sablieres. A guard has come to 
take you to the Superintendent at once." 

“Why?" asked Raoul. 

“I don't know," replied Mr. Wanklin. 

(“You do know!" said Raoul to himself.) “The sen¬ 
tinel's worse, I suppose . . . dead, perhaps?" 

“No, no, he's not dead," said Mr. Wanklin with such 
haste that Raoul was certain he was lying. He got up and 
straightened himself. 

“ Good-bye, Lenepveu," he said gently, taking his hands. 
“Remember to greet France for me when you get to 
Morlaix!" 

The brilliant, wasted smile followed him out into the 
ward where the corporal's escort was waiting for him. 


CHAPTER III 
TWO REMORSES 


She had lost her taste of pleasure and her ambition of excellence: 
and her mind, though forced into short excursions, always recurred to 
the image of her friend.— Rasselas, chap. xxxv. 

‘'Hallo!'' exclaimed Mr. Bentley, rustling the newspaper, 
‘ ‘ here are fine doings at Norman Cross I Tch! tch!'' 

The other three persons in the room instantly put aside 
their occupations; that is to say, M. de Sainte-Suzanne, 
who was instructing Laetitia in the moves of chess, ceased 
to illustrate, and she to wrinkle her pretty forehead over the 
grasshopper-like progress of the knight, and Juliana, who 
had been doing nothing at all, roused herself. 

“Listen, my dears," said Mr. Bentley, and read out: 

“‘On Monday night last three French officers made the 
most determined attempt, in which two of them succeeded, 
to escape from Yaxley barracks. ^ Having climbed out 
through a ventilator from the building in which they were 
confined, they scaled the stockade and, by means of a rope, 
supplied no doubt by an accomplice, surmounted the great 
wall. At this point, however, they were discovered by a 
sentinel of the West Kent Militia, and an affray ensued, 
in which we regret to report that this valiant son of Mars 
was run through the body with his own bayonet, and left 
in a very serious condition. But as his assailant was also 
discovered insensible from a blow on the head, this shock¬ 
ing outrage will be punished as it deserves. It is to be 
hoped that the other two miscreants may also be captured, 
though so far they appear to have got away.'—Well, well, 
what a dreadful thing!" 

“Papa," said Laetitia very seriously, after a second or 
two of silence, “ I hope that M. des Sablieres was not one of 
those officers!" 


107 


108 


‘^MR. ROWL^^ 


‘'Now why, my dear Letty,^' asked her parent, looking at 
her quizzically over the top of the sheet, “why should you 
imagine that he would be? If young des Sablieres has any 
sense—and I think he has plenty—he would not risk his 
chances in an escape now.” 

Juliana was sitting very still on her low chair. “Perhaps 
he never got my letter, Mr. Bentley.'' 

“Dear me, Juliana, now you! The riches of the female 
ima^nation! You wrote, my dear, did you not, on Thurs¬ 
day in last week, and to-day is Friday. A letter might al¬ 
most have reached Greenland in that time!" 

“But the newspaper says the attempt was made as long 
ago as last Monday night, does it not?" 

“Even so, my dear," said her host kindly—for everyone 
at Northover was especially gentle with Juliana these last 
ten days—“even so you have no reason whatever to con¬ 
nect des Sablieres with this attempt. I suppose there 
must be some hundreds of French officers at Norman Cross." 

“Yes, I know that I am foolish," said Juliana in a low 
voice. And M. de Sainte-Suzanne, who was watching her 
from his place by the chessboard, saw that her eyes had 
filled with tears. 

“Would it not be possible to find out for certain, Bent¬ 
ley?" he suggested. “Bannister might have heard some¬ 
thing." 

“ He might, he might," agreed Mr. Bentley. He, too, was 
looking at Juliana. “ I was thinking of going into Wanfield 
this afternoon—I'll start at once, and call on him. We 
cannot have these dark fancies." He got up and patted 
Juliana's shoulder, and she caught his hand and gave it a 
little pressure. 

Most certainly Juliana needed—though she told herself 
that she did not deserve—all the sympathy which was hers at 
Northover. Although—chiefly for Sir I^ncis's sake—the 
rupture of her engagement was not yet announced, any 
awakened eye could see that she was not wearing her be¬ 
trothal ring, and Sir Francis's absence from Mulholland 
Park ... on urgent and unexplained affairs . . . 
had now lasted for over a week. Very soon the thousand 
tongues of rumour would all be busy with her and him, and 
he would be lucky if no connection were established between 


TWO REMORSES 109 

her dismissal of him and the just-proclaimed innocence of 
M. des Sablieres. 

Had Juliana been less high of spirit than she was, she 
would have fled from Wanfleld before her Northover visit 
was completed. But it was not, she felt, of what she had 
done now that she should be ashamed, but of what she had 
brought about by her conduct that March day. The 
honour of the man who had been wronged through her lay 
in her hands, and she did not mean to leave the place until 
she had some assurance that it was to be publicly cleared by 
his restoration to parole—of which so far nothing had been 
heard. Moreover, though she did not know how she 
could look him in the face, yet if ‘"Mr. RowT' were sent 
back to Wanfleld within a reasonable time, she would wish to 
meet him. She could not be happy in her mind till she had 
heard from his own lips that he had forgiven her, and be¬ 
lieved what she had said in her letter—that she had not 
shielded herself at his expense. For Rasselas, lying on her 
dressing table, whispered to her daily that he suspected she 
had. 

And after this her next task would be to placate her father, 
who, though in general extremely amenable, had exhibited 
by letter a very lively sense of his only daughter's wayward¬ 
ness, though he lamented rather than condenmed the rup¬ 
ture with Mulholland, and promised to throw all his in¬ 
fluence on the side of Mulholland's victim. Nothing but 
an attack of gout had prevented his arriving in person to 
remonstrate with Juliana; and only expressions of profound 
penitence from his erring offspring had deterred him (so he 
wrote) from sending his carriage to fetch her away at once 
from the locality where she had done so much mischief 
and earned, or was about to earn, such uncomfortable noto¬ 
riety. 

(But Lord Fulgrave knew in his heart, and Miss Juliana 
knew, too, that what really deterred him from this exhibition 
of paternal authority was the conviction that the carriage 
would have returned as empty as it started.) 

Almost directly Mr. Bentley had gone, Laetitia dis¬ 
covered that it was time for her to set off to the lodge to 
read to old Betty as she had promised. Would M. de 


110 ^^MR. ROWL^' 

Sainte-Suzanne keep Miss Forrest company until she or her 
father returned? 

''Most willingly/' replied the old Frenchman, "if Miss 
Forrest will be satisfied with me. I cannot hope for the 
privilege of teaching her chess, for she knows it already. 
But perhaps she will accept my arm round the garden?" 

Restless and apprehensive—unnecessarily apprehensive, 
no doubt—^Juliana was glad of the suggestion. She liked 
the Comte, though she was a trifle in awe of him. And 
since the nineteenth of March she had felt a certain con¬ 
straint in his presence, while being grateful to him for so 
unexpectedly abstaining from public condemnation of the 
unfortunate Mr. Rowl. Now, walking slowly along the 
terrace with her hand resting lightly on that meagre arm, 
she suddenly realized not only that it was the first time they 
had been alone together since her return to Wanfield, but 
also that the foolish feeling of constraint was ebbing away. 
That the old Royalist had seen her and M. des Sablieres to¬ 
gether by the stream that day was surely now a bond be¬ 
tween them, not a barrier. She even had an impulse to 
speak to him about it, and when, having paced round the 
lawn, talking of nothing in particular, they reached the 
terrace again she was not sorry when M. de Sainte-Suzanne 
said apologetically: 

"But here am I chattering like an old magpie, while 
you are anxious about that report from Norman Cross. 
You must forgive me, Mademoiselle." 

" I think I should not be so foolish if I had not a bad con¬ 
science," said Juliana dejectedly. 

The Comte stopped. ' ‘Mademoiselle, I wish mine were as 
clear as yours! Will you allow an old man the privilege of 
saying how much he admires your courage? I tread on 
delicate ground, I know . . . but I am so very old!" 

Juliana half laughed, though her eyes were misty. She 
was aware that he knew the truth about her engagement. 
"I am afraid that you are not very accurate. Monsieur le 
Comte! And I could not do anything else but what I 
have done latterly. But oh, if only I had not been so 
wilful!" 

"Wilful?" asked M. de Sainte-Suzanne, raising his eye¬ 
brows. 


TWO REMORSES 111 

“You do not know the whole story—only Mr. Bentley 
and Laetitia know that. But, as you saw M. des Sablieres 
and me together that day by the stream, I think I ought to 
tell you. . . . Shall we sit on this seat? I daresav 

that when you saw us, however surprised you may have 
been, you thought at any rate it was a chance meeting?’’ 

M. de Sainte-Suzanne seated himself beside her. “Had 
I allowed myself to speculate about it,” he said with his fine 
smile, “I should undoubtedly have thought so.” 

“But it was not, Comte! It was I who . . . sug¬ 
gested to M. des Sablieres that he should be there that after¬ 
noon. I wanted to give him a book, and I returned to Mul- 
holland Park that way on purpose. So—though I had no 
thought in my head but to—show my independence” (the 
words came out very low, and she studied the gravel), “you 
see that it is I who am to blame for everything.” 

“But, my dear young lady,” said the old man, “though in 
a sense that may be true—and one but thinks the more 
highly of you for acknowledging it—still, it was in no way 
your doing that this vagabond was in the little wood and 
tried to rob you, and so brought about M. des Sablieres’s 
intervention.” 

“Ah, yes, it was,” said Juliana, “because if I had not— 
had not acted so, the vagabond might have been there 
indeed, but I should not. I should have gone back the 
other way, and so M. des Sablieres would never have been 
involved in any difficulty.” 

“Well, well,” said the Comte, “we cannot all be wise 
when we are young. Nor, even if we live to be old, can we 
foretell the consequences of our actions—a merciful dis¬ 
pensation, no doubt, of the good God.” 

He had made it easy for Juliana to talk to him. Now she 
was looking at the austere profile with her own brows 
drawn together. “ There is one thing which has puzzled me 
so much, and that is, how M. des Sablieres could have for¬ 
gotten that you saw us together, so short a time before the 
Vagrant attacked me? When he—^when his word was 
doubted as to my being in the copse, why did he not say to 
Mr. Bannister: ‘But the Comte de Sainte-Suzanne saw Miss 
Forrest near the copse just at that time’? You would have 
confirmed that, if he had asked you, would you not?” 


112 ^‘MR. ROWL^^ 

The Comte inclined his head. '‘Certainly—^if he had 
asked me.” 

“It seems so strange to have forgotten,” repeated 
Juliana musingly. “But the whole affair must have been 
so sudden, such a shock. Mr. Bannister has told me about 
that interview.” 

M. de Sainte-Suzanne got up and began to examine the 
climbing rose just by them, whose new green promise was 
once more clothing the old bricks of Northover. He picked 
off a leaf and looked at it. 

“You are sure. Mademoiselle, that he did forget?” 

Juliana gazed up at him, astonished. “What do you 
mean, Comte? Not—surely—that he believed you would 
refuse to bear out his statement?” 

“No, Mademoiselle, I do not mean that.” He dropped 
the leaf. “It is a beautiful afternoon; Mr. Bentley cannot 
be back yet; will you do me the honour to walk with me as 
far as my little cottage. Mademoiselle Juliana? I can 
answer your question better there.” 

“Yes, certainly I will come with you, if you wish,” said 
Juliana, her surprise not lessened. 

The Comte’s little house—it really was not more than a 
cottage—lay a bare ten minutes from the gates of North- 
over. Juliana had been there once or twice with Laetitia 
to drink tea^ with the old man, but she was struck afresh 
to-day with its impeccable orderliness. He had a wrinkled 
French servant—^perhaps that was the reason. But then 
the same order pervaded his stiff little garden, which was 
not in her hands. 

“Perrine, bring us your elderberry wine and some bis¬ 
cuits,” said M. de Sainte-Suzanne, and in the spotless 
parlour conducted his guest, with his usual punctilious 
courtesy, to a comfortable chair; and Juliana, not to be out¬ 
done in the same quality, sipped some of the elderberry 
wine, which she disliked, and looked once more at the pastel 
portrait of the young man in uniform over the mantelpiece, 
cut down, as she had heard, by the Republican soldiers 
in Alsace because he refused to ask quarter, and brought 
back, after Cond4’s victory, on the gun he had died to save. 
Twenty years dead, he was very handsome, very gay; and 


TWO REMORSES 


113 


his sword hung beneath him, and beneath that again a 
little wreath of immortelles, so dry and shrivelled that to 
Juliana they only emphasized what they commemorated. 
Her glance went thence to the tiny garden, with its beehives 
each exactly the same number of inches apart, and a sense 
of great sadness came over her. M. de Sainte-Suzanne 
could have gone back years ago, had he wished, to his 
estates and revenues in France. But no, that would have 
involved recognizing and making his peace with the usurper. 
Rather than belie his convictions he lived on year after year 
in exile, poverty, and cramped surroundings, his family 
dead, with nothing to look forward to except what seemed 
a very improbable desire on the part of his native land for 
the return of the Bourbons. A dead bough—the words 
came back to her, and the withered everlastings seemed 
to lend point to them. And yet . . . decay had its 
dignity. 

Meanwhile the old man had been unlocking a writing 
table, and came back with a letter. 

‘'Here is the answer to your question, Mademoiselle. I 
received this, by an unknown hand, from the gaol the day 
that M. des Sablieres was taken thence to Norman Cross. 
You read French, I know.” 

Juliana took the missive, written on coarse paper with an 
obviously superannuated pen, and in an unfamiliar foreign 
script. One glance at the signature—^which sent the colour 
to her cheeks—and she read: 


Wanfield Gaol, March 21, 1813. 

Monsieur le Comte: 

You saw me on Friday afternoon about four o’clock in converse with 
a certain lady on the banks of the stream. After she had left me at 
the bridge the lady was attacked in Fawley Copse by a tramp; I 
naturally rushed to her assistance, and had the good fortune to beat 
him off. To do this I was obliged to go out of bounds for ten minutes 
or so. For this technical breach of parole, and because it is asserted 
that, the lady in question being elsewhere at the time, the whole story 
is a fabrication, I am now in gaol and shall probably be sent to Norman 
Cross. 

Since I could have requested you, had I wished, to testify to this 
lady having been in my company that afternoon shortly before the 
occurrence, and have not done so, you will understand why I ask you 
henceforward to forget the fact. The lady has now left the neigh¬ 
bourhood, and, I am sure, is ignorant of the turn events have taken. 


114 


*^MR. ROWL^^ 


I do not wish her to be caused annoyance, nor would you, I am certain, 
desire her name to be coupled, however innocently, with that of a 
man on whom you have publicly turned your back. 

RAOUL-MARIE-AMEDfiE DES SABLIERES. 

But, by the land which gave us both birth, I swear to you that I 
did not break my parole—except in a fashion that any man must 
have done for the moment. 

The colour had left Juliana^s face. ‘‘He did not forget, 
then—he went to prison for a scruple! He could have 
saved himself! Oh, why did he do it? I was not ashamed 
of having met him 

The Comte sat down beside her. “My dear young 
lady, I am sure he was quite content to go to prison for a 
scruple of that sort. He is a gentleman, and it was not for 
him to mention having had the pleasure of a previous meet¬ 
ing with you, especially—^may I say so now that you have 
honoured me with your confidence?—especially if it was not 
a chance meeting. He probably feared that that fact 
would come to light. No, no, my dear, you must not blame 
yourself unduly. He did quite right. Yet I, to my eternal 
regret, when I saw him marched off to gaol, I did as he says 
—I turned my back upon him.'' 

But Juliana was too much occupied by her own self-re¬ 
proach to feel M. de Sainte-Suzanne's very keenly. She 
got up and walked rather agitatedly to the window, pulling 
out her handkerchief. The outlines of the beehives were 
no longer quite clear to her. 

“I have heard you criticise M. des Sablieres because he 
served the Emperor," she said, dabbing surreptitiously at 
her eyes. “You said such soldiers had no traditions and 
no breeding. How could any one have behaved more 
honourably, more chivalrously, than he has done?" 

“Mademoiselle, I have told you that I am full of remorse. 
But I do not recede from my position," replied the invet¬ 
erate old aristocrat. “M. des Sablieres—one in a hundred! 
of the ‘Emperor’s’ officers—te breeding and traditions, and 
I ought to have known that they would tell, in spite of his 
environment. No, I could not have wished Fdlix"—he 
glanced for a moment at the portrait—“to have behaved 
otherwise. I shall welcome the day when I can beg M. 
des Sablieres’ pardon for misjudging him.” 


TWO REMORSES 


115 


‘‘But/' said Juliana half irritably, “one cannot count on 
that now. If he has escaped—or if by chance he is the re¬ 
captured officer . . . no, I will not believe that, it 

would be too much ill-fortune. . . . Let us return to 

Northover, Monsieur, for Mr. Bentley may be back now." 
She picked up the cloak which she had let slide and her 
host put it over her shoulders. But as he did so a thought 
struck her, and she turned again: “Then all this time 
—ever since M. des Sablieres went to Norman Cross, in¬ 
deed— you have known the truth about him, M. de Sainte- 
Suzanne?" 

“Yes—in confidence. It has been at once a reproach 
and a consolation to me." 

“Then I think you might have shared it with me before!" 
said Miss Forrest rather indignantly. 

“My dear Mademoiselle Juliana, I am not sure that I 
ought to have shown you that letter even now! Certainly 
I would not have done so before you admitted me into your 
confidence about the rendezvous. The whole point of the 
letter was to bid me forget the fact that I had seen you to¬ 
gether, and I endeavoured to do so." 

“But-" began Juliana and then stopped, for there 

were steps in the little hall, Perrine’s voice at the door an¬ 
nouncing, “Monsieur Bent-lee," and that gentleman him¬ 
self walking hastily in, too perturbed to be tactful. 

“ It’s true. I’m sorry to say—that is, Bannister has heard 
that the recaptured officer came frorn Wanfield, which is 
sufficient to identify him as des Sablieres. And the sen¬ 
tinel has died. . . . Most unfortunate affair. . . . 

I shall go to Yaxley to-morrow to see the boy and get the 
facts, then to Peterborough or Huntingdon to interview 
an attorney. He must have the best possible legal assist¬ 
ance if the case goes to the Assizes. Of course there \^11 
be an inquest first and-My dear Juliana, drink this!" 

He caught up the half-empty wine-glass as Juliana sank 
down, white as her dress, upon the nearest chair. She 
shook her head. 

“I am quite well. And if you go to Norman Cross to¬ 
morrow I shall go with you. Mr. Bentley, he deliberately 
threw away . . . Oh, I can’t. . . ." She could 
not, at any rate, finish. 


CHAPTER IV 

A BETTER GIFT THAN RASSELAS 


“ The violence of war admits no distinction; the lance that is lifted at 
guilt and power will sometimes fall on innocence and gentleness.” 
“How little,” said I, “did I expect that yesterday it should have 
fallen upon me!”— Rasselas, chap, xxxviii. 

“To VISIT a French officer prisoner, Sir? That rests with 
the Superintendent, Captain Hanwell. If you will drive 
round the barracks here you will see the east gate of the 
prison before you, and the turnkey there will send your 
card in. I do not suppose there will be any difficulty.'' 

Then this group of buildings was only the barracks; the 
prison itself was behind that high encircling wall which 
they had already seen as they approached Norman Cross 
by the Great North Road. Mr. Bentley had alighted from 
the chaise and was talking to the officer who had appeared 
on their being stopped by a sentry; and Juliana, with her 
heavy heart, had moved nearer to the window to hear 
better. 

^ Mr. Bentley was now uttering thanks. Then she heard 
him say dubiously, “I suppose you are not able to tell me. 
Sir, how matters stand with Captain des Sablieres, who 
is alleged to have fatally injured a sentinel?" 

“Oh, is that the fellow you have come to see!" exclaimed 
the soldier. By now he had evidently become aware of 
the fair face at the chaise window. “You will be glad to 
hear, then, that as the sentinel has exonerated him-" 

Both Mr. Bentley and Juliana gave an exclamation. 
“But we understood that the sentinel had died!" ejaculated 
the former in astonishment. 

“He nearly did, I believe. But he is now on the road to 
recovery, and when, last night, his evidence was taken 
again, he retracted his former accusation against Captain 
116 


A BETTER GIFT THAN RASSELAS 117 

des Sablieres—said, in fact, that he had never really made 
it, knowing that he had knocked des Sablieres senseless 
at the outset.” Here the beautiful daughter at the chaise 
window showed signs of agitation—lucky dog, this French¬ 
man! 

Mr. Bentley breathed an enormous sigh of relief. ‘‘ There 
is then no prospect of M. des Sablieres' having to stand 
his trial?” 

“None at all, that I can see,” responded the young man. 
“Punishment of some sort, of course, he will get, for one 
can’t encourage escaping, you know. Sir, but nothing—er 
—condign, I am glad to say.” He delicately emphasized 
the reason for his sympathetic attitude by a tiny bow in 
the direction of the chaise. 

“ I am very ^eatly obliged to you, Sir,” said Mr. Bentley. 
“You have relieved us from a terrible apprehension. What 
a relief! Juliana, my dear, we are to drive to the prison 
entrance yonder. I will walk; ’tis not worth my reenter¬ 
ing.” And he motioned the postilion forward, while Juli¬ 
ana leant back with her hands over her face. 

There followed a wait, which seemed to her endless, in the 
turnkey’s lodge outside the East gate, till at last the mes¬ 
senger from the interior returned, and the turnkey an¬ 
nounced to Mr. Bentley that Captain Hanwell would allow 
him to see the prisoner he named. 

“As a matter of fact,” he added, “he’s interviewing him 
himself at the moment. If you will follow this man he’ll 
take you across to the Superintendent’s office there.” 

So they went through the great gate, and were in the 
precincts of the prison to which she had sent her friend. 
Down a long wide alley in front of her Juliana saw the guns 
of the central blockhouse, and had an impression of penned 
humanity. But her mind was in such a turmoil that she 
was not conscious of much except palisading and sentries 
everywhere, and over the palisading the chimneyless, almost 
windowless casernes, roof after roof. . . . Their guide 

bore to the left across the open space dotted with sentry 
boxes, and stopped at a low building in a line with the 
stockade. It was of wood, like all the rest, and appeared 
to be an office, for within, at a high desk, was seated a clerk 
who incontinently withdrew himself into an inner room. 


MR. ROWL^' 


118 

Then, the turnkey likewise departing, Juliana was able at 
last to give vent to her relief. 

“Oh, Mr. Bentley, let us thank God that the sentinel is 
alive—and has told the truth!“ 

“Indeed, my dear Juliana, I do,” replied her companion 
with warmth, “and our young friend may do the same, as 
I hope he does. If this man had died, I don’t like to 
think what might have happened to the boy.” 

“But, Mr. Bentley,” protested Juliana indignantly, “how 
could any jury believe so monstrous a charge? ” 

“‘Monstrous,’ my dear?” queried Mr. Bentley gravely. 
“It might very well have been true!” 

“What! M. des Sablieres bayonet a sentinel!” 

Mr. Bentley shook his head. “My dear child, an escap¬ 
ing prisoner is usually desperate. When a young man’s 

blood is up, when his liberty is at stake-however, we need 

not pursue that subject, but thank God with all our hearts 
that des Sablieres was saved from that extremity. . . . 

Now sit down, and compose yourself after all this fatigue 
and anxiety. I understand that Captain Hanwell is inter¬ 
viewing our friend at this moment—I suppose in this very 
building—no doubt to announce to him the favourable 
change in his circumstances.” 

Juliana obediently sat down on a bench against the wall. 
Her eyes went round the unattractive room; where the 
paper was peeling from the walls. Through the window she 
could see an empty enclosure, looking damp and sodden 
and inexpressibly dreary, and, at the end of a paved path 
which ran diagonally from the rear of this little building, 
the caserne, just like all the rest, which their guide had 
pointed out as the officers’ quarters. This was the place to 
which she had sent him! 

But oh, it might have been a thousand times worse! 
It might have been Huntingdon Gaol on a capital charge! 
And that would have been her doing, too. But now, cleared 
of this dangerous accusation, and with all the evidence to 
hand of his initial innocence, he would soon be released. 
Perhaps in time he would forget this unmerited captivity 
and who had brought it upon him. Would he return to 
Wanfield . . . would he wish to return to Wanfield? 

Mr. Bentley, who was slowly pacing up and down with 



A BETTER GIFT THAN RASSELAS 119 

his hands behind his back, now came to a stop, listening, 
and a tramp of feet was heard outside. Juliana got up, her 
heart beating painfully. 

The steps halted at the door, which began to open. A 
voice which she did not recognize said in low tones of en¬ 
treaty, “For God’s sake take these things off before I-” 

and another replied sharply, “Out of the question. In 
with you!” Then the door swung wide, and there, stand¬ 
ing just inside by the wall, not looking at them, was Raoul 
des Sablieres, in the gay, trim uniform he had worn at the 
January ball. The door shut again. 

But it was not the Raoul of the ball, nor indeed he of the 
stream. For a moment Juliana hardly loiew him. His 
face was nearly as white as the unforeseen bandage round 
his head, and there were dark circles under his eyes as if 
from illness. But the expression on his face was one of 
shock, of flinching. The next second Juliana realized also 
why he kept his arms in that unnatural position in front 
of him—^his wrists were chained together. She stifled a 
faint cry and shrank back in her comer. 

Mr. Bentley, who also had seemed for an instant discon¬ 
certed, now took a step or two towards the unmoving figure 
and held out his hand. 

“My dear des Sablieres, I am very glad to see you! I 
hope that bandage does not mean anything serious?” 
Then he perceived why Raoul had made no motion to take 
his hand, and, biting his lip, he dropped it. 

“We have come, my dear fellow,” he began again, 
‘ ‘ Miss Forrest and I-” 

“Miss Forrest!” exclaimed the young man. His pale 
face was suddenly tinged with colour; he lifted his head 
sharply, and saw her indeed in the background. The colour 
deepened painfully; then it ebbed in a rather startling 
manner. He made an inclination of the head in Juliana’s 
direction, and after an instant said, still in that voice 
which seemed someone else’s, but was now expressionless, 
“It is very kind of you. Sir . . . and Miss Forrest. 
I can say good-bye.” 

“Say good-bye!” ejaculated Mr. Bentley. “What on 
earth do you mean? Don’t stand there like that, my boy, 
but come and sit down and tell us the whole story. We 


120 


‘^MR. ROWL" 


have heard some of it—that is to say, the end—^and we are 
happy to know that- 

He did not finish. Raoul had broken into the most dis¬ 
concerting and mirthless little laugh. 

*‘Have you heard the end, Mr. Bentley—the real end? 
I think not, or you would hardly use the word ‘happy’ 

“Surely you are not going to stand your trial after all?” 
exclaimed Mr. Bentley in alarm, and again his glance dwelt 
on the handcuffs. 

The bandaged head was shaken. “ I wish to Gk)d I were! 
I might have had a chance then . . . for I did not 
bayonet the sentinel, Mr. Bentley, and I think I could have 
proved it. And even if I had been hanged for what I did 
not do, it would have been over quickly. But now . . . 

it will not be over quickly, for I am going . . . they are 

sending me-” He obviously found it hard to finish, 

and, gripping his fettered hands tightly together, bent his 
head and turned away. 

“My dear boy, where?” asked Mr. Bentley putting a 
hand on his shoulder. 

Raoul swung round again. “To hell, Mr. Bentley. To 
the hulks at Plymouth.” 

Juliana gave a sharp cry. “The hulks!” 

“Good God!” said Mr. Bentley, horror-struck. Then 
he recovered himself. ‘ ‘ But that is impossible —a mistake! 
You are an officer—^an officer cannot be sent to the hulks r 

“When an officer tries to escape he loses the privileges of 
his rank,” answered Raoul bitterly. “I am to go with a 
a gang of mutineers which is starting on Monday for Ply¬ 
mouth, the hulks at Chatham and Portsmouth being so 
overcrowded at present that even the Transport Board 
cannot cram in any more.” 

“Going with the common soldiers—mutineers— youT 
said Mr. Bentley. “It is imheard of—outrageous! I shall 
see Captain Hanwell about it at once!” 

“I assure you that it is useless, Mr. Bentley. He will 
listen to nothing; he has, I understand, his orders. And it 
has happened before to officers. I have taken part in an 
escape with violence . . . and I am the only one who 
can be punished. The other two, I am glad to say, got 
away.” 


A BETTER GIFT THAN RASSELAS 121 

“And it was they, of course, who stabbed the sentinel! 
Oh, something must be done about this! Captain Hanwell 
must be reminded that you were wrongly sent here in the 
first instance. Has he not heard from the Transport Office 
on that point—^has he not received Bannister’s letter?— 
You know, don’t you, that it has all come out—that Miss 
Forrest ...” 

“Yes, I know,” answered Raoul, and he looked briefly, 
painfully, towards Juliana. “I received Miss Forrest’s 
very kind letter.” 

“But has Captain Hanwell had no official commimica- 
tion? ” persisted Mr. Bentley. “ That must be looked into. 
I shall see him myself—I will take no denial! How can I 
get at him? There’s a clerk in there, I believe.” 

RaouJ’s eyes dwelt on him in a manner which did not sug¬ 
gest that he had any great hopes from his intervention as 
Mr. Bentley went to the inner door and knocked upon it 
and called. He said nothing, and never looked at Juliana 
during the short parley which ensued between that gentle¬ 
man and the clerk whom he did indeed cause t 9 emerge, 
and who agreed, not very willingly, to take him into Cap¬ 
tain Hanwell’s own office adjoining. 

And so, the next minute, the two were gone, and m the 
dull, disheartening little room were left the girl, looking like 
some strayed figure of Spring in her pretty white jaconet 
dress and the cape of green silk slung by a cord across her 
shoulders, and the young hussar in his silver-gray bravery, 
with a bandage round his head which might well have 
testified to a battlefield and its painful honours. But 
Spring had horror and remorse in her gaze, and the hand¬ 
cuffs made a mockery of the uniform. 

Its wearer was plainly only too conscious^ of that fact. 
He stood rigid by the discoloured wall, quite silent, his 
eyes on the floor, his fettered hands, as always, in front of 
him. “He does not want even to look at me,” thought 
Juliana, transfixed with misery. “He hates me—^he knows 
it is I who have brought him to this. He would rather 
be alone.” But then, as if he had read her thoughts, the 
young man suddenly lifted his head, looked at her out of 
his dark-ringed eyes, and said gently: 

“It is so kind of you to have come . . . and to 


122 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


have written like that, Mademoiselle. But why do you 
not sit down—^is it too dusty in this horrible place? . . . 

I wish you need not have been brought here.'" 

And from his tone she felt sure that he meant, ‘‘to see 
me like this." The conviction that he was humiliated by 
her presence, that indeed, since she had come too late, it 
would have been kinder to have kept away, brimmed over 
the cup of her unhappiness, and she sank down on the 
bench that might or might not have been dusty and put 
her hands over her face. 

“Mademoiselle," came his voice, less unfamiliar and 
strained, “please do not be so distressed! This cannot 
be helped, and Mr. Bentley should not have closed you 
to—to the . . . Mon Dieu, are you crying? Why 
should you cry?" 

What a question! Suddenly Juliana was sobbing help¬ 
lessly, and then she knew that he was beside her, having 
moved for the first time from his self-chosen station. 

“Please do not cry!" he said, and his voice was now as 
she remembered it. “ Mademoiselle, if I am guilty of mak¬ 
ing you do that I do indeed deserve heavy punishment!" 

But that observation, and the attempt at lightness with 
which it was uttered, did nothing to check Juliana's tears. 

Raoul sat down on the bench beside her. “Mademoi¬ 
selle, de grace! You make me so ashamed to have let you 
see that . . . that I do not like my sentence. You 
must try to forgive me ... I had only just heard it; 
but now I am a little braver. Mademoiselle!" 

Juliana Forrest was not readily given to tears, and she 
found it proportionately difficult to control them now. 
Yet amid their mingled bitterness and relief she felt that she 
really was distressing him, and wasting the precious time 
as well. She made a great effort over herself and presently 
was drying her eyes. And the question which for twenty- 
four hours had tormented her came out, not free of reproach: 

“If you had my letter, why, why did you try to escape?" 

‘‘Yes, I do not wonder at your asking that!" he said, with 
a little phantom smile. “It was because I was already 
committed to the enterprise. I tried to withdraw, but 
... my comrades needed me. I knew that my con¬ 
duct would seem foolish, and worse, imgrateful—^but in- 


A BETTER GIFT THAN RASSELAS 123 

deed I was not ungrateful, Mademoiselle, only unable to 
do otherwise. I meant to write to you when I got out. 
But now . . . I see you and I can tell you myself 
how divinely kind and generous it was of you to write 
that letter.” 

‘^Generous! I? When it is entirely my doing that you 
are in this situation!” 

''No, not yourSf Mademoiselle!” ' 

She coloured, and dropped her gaze. It rested on her 
ringless hand. Then she raised her eyes again bravely. 
"Yes, mine, M. des Sablieres. You know it was my 
. . . my pique and self-will which brought about all 
this.” 

"Mademoiselle-” began Raoul, embarrassed, but 

she went on quickly: "It is true, M. des Sablieres—^alas, 
I wish it were not! But I know that you might have 
saved yourself with Mr. Bannister, if you had been will¬ 
ing to risk a possible slight injury to the reputation of a 
girl who did not deserve such consideration. Oh, why did 
you not call the Comte de Sainte-Suzanne as a witness 
to my whereabouts? Indeed you were too chivalrous. I 
had no wish to hide the fact that we had met that day by 
the stream—^had I known what hung on it I would have 
blazoned it abroad.” 

"Ah, Mademoiselle. . . .” said the yoimg man. His 
eyes thanked her. "But ... it was not so simple as 
that. It was not that, by calling the Comte, I so much 
feared for you the revelation of our very harmless little 
promenade by the stream, as that, for all I knew, you 
yourself had—^and were not to be blamed for it if it seemed 
good to you—^you yourself really had told a certain person 
that you had returned by the highroad, and had said noth¬ 
ing about Fawley Copse. I know now that it was not so, 
but I could not be sure of it, then. So how could I call a 
witness who might prove you . . . a liar?” 

> "And you went to prison rather than run the risk of 
that?” 

! "But of course, Mademoiselle!” He seemed surprised 
at the question. "How could I repay your kindness by 
doing such a thing?” 

1 " Kindness!'' said Juliana in a low voice. Her lip trembled 



124 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


a little. She looked at him sitting there beside her, pale, 
injured, fettered—her victim, and yet how immeasurably 
above her! He was her judge. The thought of her rejected 
gift returned sharply upon her. 

''M. des Sablieres, I implore you to say that you believe 
I did not lie!^' 

He turned his bandaged head quickly. 

‘^Mademoiselle, what are you thinking of me? Did you 
not tell me so in your letter? That was enough for me. 
Ah, it is I who should be imploring you for pardon that 
I ever thought you might have done so. But I never, 
for one moment, thought that you had done it knowing that 
I was in difficulties—^never, never! And I begin to think 
now,'' he added on a sudden half-whimsical note, “that 
since it distresses you so, I had better not have chosen 
the hospitality of Captain Hanwell. But it seemed the 
right course to take, then." 

That she should be driving him to apologize for his 
heroism and his chivalry was more intolerable than the 
other position. She sprang up. “You think I am blam¬ 
ing you!" she exclaimed. “Oh, M. des Sablieres, you must 
hate the very sight of me!" 

“That," said Raoul as he rose, with something of his old 
easy, buoyant manner, “is not very probable, even if I were 
going to be hanged for what you choose to imagine is your 
doing, chere Mademoiselle Forrest! And hanging, as you 
know, is not to be my fate. As for the hulks, perhaps I shall 
not stay there very long. An old ship and some water-'' 

The opening of the door stopped him. It was Mr. 
Bentley, unsuccessful, as was evident from his expression. 

“ It is of no use," he said dejectedly. “ Captain Hanwell 
expresses regrets, but he has definite orders from London. 
And he has received Mr. Bannister’s letter. I do not see 
what further plea can be brought to bear on him." 

“But, Mr. Bentley," objected Juliana, “evidently Cap¬ 
tain Hanwell cannot realize that the initial injustice of M. 
des Sablieres’ having been sent here at all is being pressed 
upon the Commissioners at this moment by my father 
and others. He surely has sufficient discretionary powers 
allowed him to wait a few days and see the result. I shall 
go and interview him myself!" 


A BETTER GIFT THAN RASSELAS 125 


“My dear, I am really afraid-’’ began Mr. Bentley. 

“Do not go, I beg of you. Mademoiselle,” said Raoul, 
looking rather startled. “Even to you I do not think he 
will listen. I assure you I was not dumb myself.” He 
smiled, half wryly, at the recollection. 

“Yes, I must see him,” said Juliana firmly. “My 
father’s name should have some weight. If Mr. Bentley 
did not actually ask for a little delay-” 

“No, my dear, I can’t remember that I urged that. I 
argued rather from the premises you mention, that M. 
des Sablieres ought never to have been sent here at all.” 

“Then I have a sufficiently good reason for an interview,” 
said Miss Forrest, “and I shall not be asking for too much. 
Will you take me to Captain Hanwell, Mr. Bentley? 
. . . I shall see you again to take farewell, M. des Sab¬ 
lieres.” 

“God bless you. Mademoiselle,” he answered. “But— 
if they s/towZd have taken me away? . . .” 

Juliana held out her hand, with a look which proclaimed, 
as plainly as speech, not what she thought of herself and 
her part in this calamity, but what she thought of his. 
Rather dazzled, Raoul took the little hand, as best he could, 
in both his own and put his lips to it. 

In his own office, where there was no wallpaper to peel, 
so lined were the walls with pigeonholes, at a large table 
heaped with docketed papers and files, Captain William 
Hanwell, R. N., had now turned from the des Sablieres 
affair, which, as far as he was concerned, he considered 
closed, to his correspondence with the Transport Board on 
a subject about which that body were just as inquisi¬ 
torial, namely, the undue consumption and the ultimate 
fate of the birch brooms in use at Norman Cross. 

Captain Hanwell was fairly new to his present duties, 
having succeeded the late Agent, the popular Captain 
Draper, just two months before. Like nearly all in his posi¬ 
tion, he was a naval official, the Transport Office being a 
branch of the Admiralty. The successful escape of Dumont 
and Clairet, the attack on the sentry, a certain amount of 
friction with General Williams and Brigade-Major Mills, 
the discovery of the complicity of the man Marwin, and 


126 


‘‘MR. ROWL'^ 


s^e very stiff letters from the Commissioners about the 
affair were not a particularly auspicious prelude to his third 
month of office, and it would have been surprising if he had 
been sympathetic to des Sablieres when he had had him 
before him just now. ^ The culprit had been so stunned 
by his sentence that it had taken the news of Marwin’s 
prospective five hundred lashes to rouse him. He had 
then pleaded hard for the unfortunate militiaman, and was 
told that he should have considered the probable results 
to the latter before sub 9 ming him. Yet Captain Hanwell, 
if stem, was neither vindictive nor unjust; he had every 
nght to be angry, and he was only carrying out his instmc- 
tions. 

He had just taken up his pen to assure the Commission¬ 
ers that the old broom stumps should be received back into 
store as they ordered, when there was a knock at the door 
It opened, and there came in a beautiful, tall girl, simply 
and elegantly dressed, accompanied by the oldish gentleman 
ne^nad already interviewed. 

Miss Juliana Forrest, Lord Fulgrave's daughter, desires 
the favour of a word with you. Sir,” said this Mr. Bentley: 
and there was nothing for Captain Hanwell to do but to 
jump up and fetch her a chair, and exhibit all the attention 
proper from a naval officer to a member of the fair sex. 
But when this attractive intruder reopened the question of 
the fate of des Sablieres he presented an immovable front. 

1 do not for a moment doubt your testimony, Miss 
horrest he assmed her when she referred to the episode 
of the tramp. In substance it is already familiar to me 
you know from a letter which I received from the Agent 
at Wanfield. But you see, do you not, that to adjudicate on 
Captain des Sablieres past innocence or guilt never came 
within my province. He was sent to me as a ‘ broke-parole ’ 
and as a brok^parole’ I received him, and that past guilt 
or innocence does not, unfortunately, at all affect the 
since ” misdemeanour he has committed 

^ ^ Sir,” replied Juliana, “is a few days’ 

the hulks on 

Monday. My father and my cousin, the Earl of Chi¬ 
chester, are both mteresting themselves in this case; it 


A BETTER GIFT THAN RASSELAS 127 

is impossible that nothing should come of their representa¬ 
tions to the Transport Office/' 

“Again I do not doubt your word, Miss Forrest, but I 
must point out that there is no trace of this in the instruc¬ 
tions I have just received from the Commissioners.” 

“But by Monday you may well receive different instruc¬ 
tions,” pleaded Miss Forrest, a bright spot on either 
cheek. “This place is not very far from London.” 

“Seventy-six miles,” returned Captain Han well, with 
precision. “If I hear from the Board in Captain des 
Sablieres’ favour on Monday you may rest assured. Miss 
Forrest, that he will not go with the draught. More than 
that I cannot possibly promise.” 

“You could not, then, yourself write to the Board,” 
suggested Juliana, “and point out that representations are 
being made to them . . .” She paused suggestively. 

Captain Hanwell almost permitted himself a smile. The 
lady was very persistent for her Frenchman; it occurred 
to him to wonder whether Viscount Fulgrave, for his part, 
were being quite so assiduous in London. 

“They must themselves be aware of it. Madam,” he 
replied, “if such influential pressure as his lordship’s and 
the Earl of Chichester’s is being brought to bear on them. 
And to inform them that—er—^representations are also 
being made to me, who cannot move in the matter without 
their orders, would, I think, prejudice rather than ad¬ 
vantage the prisoner’s case.” 

“I think Captain Hanwell is right there, my dear,” ob- 
ser\^ed Mr. Bentley, who had wisely left Juliana to conduct 
this duel by herself. 

“But I am sure that you will hear from them,” reiterated 
Miss Forrest with feminine persistence. “If you could 
only keep him back a few days!” 

“Impossible,” replied Captain Hanwell rather shortly. 
“In the first place, I should be disobeying the plain orders 
of the Board just transmitted to me; in the second, were I 
willing to disobey them on the chance of the arrival of a 
counter order, I should be obliged, if no such order c^me, 
to incur the expense of a separate escort for des Sablieres. 
And—you must forgive me if I sound unduly harsh— 
apart from my orders, I cannot personally see why he, who 


128 


‘‘MR. ROWL” 


has actually broken prison and been concerned in the 
shedding of blood, should suffer a less punishment than 
the misguided ruffians in Block No. 4 who have done 
neither.’' 

It was, evidently, hopeless. He did not want him to be 
reprieved. 

''And how will Captain des Sablieres go to Pl 3 unouth?” 

"He will march with the rest. Miss Forrest.” 

"March!—^from Huntingdonshire to the extreme limit of 
Devonshire!” 

"Prisoners are only required to do on an average twelve 
miles a day.” 

"Then it will take . . . weeks!” 

"It is a healthy enough life in fine weather.” 

"The journey will probably be preferable to what he 
finds when he arrives, poor boy,” put in Mr. Bentley sadly. 

"Yes, I^ think you are right there,” agreed Captain 
Hanwell with a certain grimness. And he rose, to indicate 
the end of the interview. 

"You think me hard, I am sure. Miss Forrest,” he said, 
as he went to open the door for her, "but you must remember 
than an unfortunate sentinel has all but lost his life over 
this business, and another has to be flogged. Pending 
any reconsideration of their order by the Commissioners, 
des Sablieres must take his punishment, too. And I should 
not be doing you a kindness if I held out any hope of its 
being remitted, now. I am sorry. Good afternoon.” 
He bowed, and they found themselves outside in the damp. 

"Oh, what a hard, cruel man!” said Juliana. "And I, 
what have I done—what have I done!” 

"You have done your best, my dear,” said Mr. Bentley, 
patting her arm. "You must not be morbid over it. 
The terrible pity is that the boy tried to escape—especially 
after getting your letter. I can’t understand his doing it. 
That was not your fault.” 

"Yes, everything is my fault, because I sent him here,” 
^ girl. "He did not want to escape, but the others 
needed him, it appears.” Struggling for her composure she 
glanced at the door of the other office; the sentry was still 
on guard outside. "And now we have to tell him that 
there is no hope of remission!” 


A BETTER GIFT THAN RASSELAS 129 


“Well, ril do it, my child,’’ said Mr. Bentley com¬ 
passionately. “I think you had better not see him again, 
since it distresses you so.” 

“Oh, no,” replied Juliana instantly. “I must see him 
again—and I think,” she added, “that I would rather see 
him alone.” 

“Very well, my dear. I will wait for you out here.” 


Raoul des Sablieres was sitting on the bench in the far 
comer, his elbows on his knees, his face hidden in his hands. 
He did not seem to have heard the door open, for he made 
no movement, and Juliana was able to stand near it a mo¬ 
ment till she was sure she could control her voice. It was 
only for her sake, then, that he had shown that cheerful¬ 
ness; when he thought he was alone-She went and sat 

down beside him. Even then he did not move. 

“M. des Sablieres, it is of no use—he will not consent to 
any delay. But if the Transport Office do not relent, 
not a day shall pass that I do not work for your re¬ 
lease—not a day! I shall communicate with you at Ply¬ 
mouth, and keep you informed. Even if my father and my 
cousin can do nothing, I shall not rest, I swear it, till I have 
you out—somehow.” ^ i ^ u- 

He murmured something scarcely audible about his 
not being worth so much trouble, and the lifeless tone 
seemed to indicate that he had little faith in her efforts. 
Small wonder when already—as she now noticed—his 
wrists were chafed by those horrible handcuffs. Her eyes 
filled. ., . , , . 

“Say that you trust me,” she said in a breaking voice, 
“or I cannot bear it I” 

That brought his hands down—and quickly. She 
caught them as they pame. “Do you trust me—me who 
have harmed you so?” 

He tried to smile at her, and as far as his mouth went 
the result was not unsatisfactory, but out of his eyes, not 
to be hidden now, looked something that had no kinship 


“I do,” he replied firmly and earnestly. “ I believe every 
word you say. I doubt if you cuti do anything more, but 
I would trust you with my life, and I shall think of you 


“MR. ROWL” 


130 

GV6ry day ... as you wGrG at Wanfield, and, still 
more ... as you have been here!’' 

He did trust her—^he did believe I And she was all he 
had to look to, in the horrible existence to which he was 
going, the pit into which she had pushed him, which he 
dreaded so much that he had not been able to hide his mo¬ 
mentary failure of courage. The tide of pity and remorse 
which every second was rising higher in her heart was 
swelled by another stream whose existence in herself Juliana 
Forrest had never guessed, that fount which almost every 
woman has of maternal and protective for a man. And 
so she gave him a last and more beautiful remembrance of 
her, for as he looked at her with those betraying^ eyes, 
his manacled wrists clasped round by her compassionate 
fingers, she suddenly leant towards him and kissed him on 
the forehead, low down, because of the bandage, almost be¬ 
tween the eyes . . . kissed him as his mother might 

have done. And before he had recovered from the wonder 
and the surprise of it she was gone. 


CHAPTER V 
THE YOKE-FELLOW 

“The angels of affliction spread their toils alike for the virtuous and 
the wicked, for the mighty and the mean.”— Rasselas, chap, xxxviii. 

“There, at the end of the file,’’ shouted the mounted sub¬ 
altern in charge. 

It was nine o’clock on Monday morning. The mutineers 
destined for the hulks, drawn up just inside the south gate 
of Norman Cross, murmured and stared as an officer was 
marched up to join them, and Raoul swept a hasty glance 
over the double rank of sullen, reckless faces. He had 
just learnt that prisoners were handcuffed two and two 
upon the march, and as his escort brought him nearer he 
beheld his future companion in irons—a big man of forty- 
five or thereabouts, grizzled and not over-clean, and with 
the general stamp of a rogue. A droop of the right eyelid 
did not improve his appearance. His hairy and unengaging 
right wrist was already encircled by a handcuff, and near 
him a soldier was waiting with some keys. 

“Look sharp now!” said the lieutenant impatiently. 

Raoul took his place by the large naan and held out his 
own chafed wrist without a word. His companion looked 
down at it curiously. The sergeant hesitated. 

“Have you got a handkerchief. Sir?” he asked in a low 
tone. Raoul produced it, and the man wrapped it round 
his wrist. “Should do that all the time if I were you,” 
he muttered, as the iron snapped into place over it. 

“Thank you,” said Raoul, and gave him a little smile- 
all he could give in return for the man’s humane impulse, 
for his small store of money had been taken from him after 
his attempted escape (though he had been told this morn¬ 
ing that it would be returned to him on arrival at his 
destination) and he had not yet received the allowance of 
131 


132 ‘^MR. ROWL^' 

sixpence a day which was made to prisoners on the road for 
their subsistence. 

Five minutes later, marching in double file, the armed 
escort either side, the officer bringing up the rear on his 
horse, the string of unfortunates was on the tree-shaded 
Peterborough road where, a week ago, Raoul had hoped to 
find himself in very different circumstances. A few minutes 
more, and they debouched on to the Great North Road, 
and turned their faces south. 

There was life and traffic here—it was strange to see it 
once more—and they had not gone very far upon its excel¬ 
lent surface before a coach passed them laden with passen¬ 
gers. As it drew abreast of the gang and its escort the horn 
began fumblingly to bray out the Marseillaise, It was a 
brutality for which nothing in his English captivity had 
so far prepared Raoul, and he clenched his hands and swore 
under his breath. 

'' Quite a pretty attention,” remarked his comrade, speak¬ 
ing for the first time, in a husky voice. ''They don't jJlay 
it very well, though.” 

"It is an abominable thing to do!” said Raoul between 
his teeth, as the derisive strains died away in the distance, 
and nothing was heard for the moment but the dull tramp 
of more than eighty feet. 

The man to whqm he was handcuffed laughed. "For 
me, I have heard that air too often to care who plays it. 
You are too sensitive. Captain—that comes of being an 
officer. And, speaking of that, I ought to feel honoured to 
share this with you”—he gave the short bit of chain a 
little shake. "I don't suppose you could return the 
compliment, though. I am not exactly a dandy, am I?” 

"But I should not feel flattered even if I were tied up 
with Soult or Mass^na,” responded Raoul. "On the other 
hand, you and I have both fought for the Emperor, and we 
have both known captivity and misfortune, so there's not 
much to choose between us.” 

His companion gave a hoarse laugh. " I've done as little 
fighting for the Emperor these last years as I could man¬ 
age,” he said with great frankness. "I deserted twice— 
once in Germany, and once in that devil's own country, 
Portugal. But I don't think the English officer knew that 


THE YOKE-FELLOW 


133 


when he picked me out for you, Captain. It was just 
chance. And I can tell you this, that you are lucky not to 
be coupled with a sailor, for they don't understand that, to a 
soldier, once an officer always an officer, and they treat a 
broke-parole just as one of themselves. You'll not have 
to complain of that sort of thing from me, at any rate, 
mon capitaine” 

‘'Thank you for the assurance," returned Raoul rather 
drily. “And in any case let me tell you that I am not a 
broke-parole. What is your name and regiment? " 

“You'll excuse me. Captain," said the man with a grin, 
“if in the circumstances I don't tell you my regiment. 
And my name—^well, I'm always called Sarrelouis. I'm 
from Lorraine." 

A little farther and he was enquiring, quite respectfully 
and in fact admiringly, about his companion's frustrated 
escape. They had all heard about it, of course, in their 
caserne; the captain had had hard luck indeed, though not 
soiiard as if the sentry had died. At one time it was re¬ 
ported that he himself was dying from the effect of the blow 
on the head. Raoul assured him that this had never been 
the case, and that, though he still had to wear a bandage, the 
wound was nearly healed. He did not add that to him 
the chief disadvantage of this adornment (besides adding to 
the conspicuousness already conferred upon him by his mnk 
and bright uniform) was that he could not wear his tight- 
fitting shako, but must march bareheaded for the present. 

At the village of Stilton they quitted the Great North 
Road, turning off to the right and making for the North¬ 
ampton main road through a network of minor roads and 
lanes. At their first halt Raoul discovered the composi¬ 
tion of the party. There were thirty-two prisoners, a 
guard of eight men, a sergeant and a corporal, and the 
officer in charge, one Lieutenant Hunter. Besides these, 
there was the “conductor," whose business it was to ride 
on ahead and make arrangements for the billeting of the 
men for the night in some bam or outhouse, and to pay 
them their allowance of sixpence a day. With such affairs 
the officer in charge had no concern; his business was t 9 see 
that no prisoner escaped en route, and he looked as if he 
would carry out this duty all the more efficiently that he 


134 


*^MR. ROWL^' 


plainly had no fancy for journeying to Devonshire in charge 
of what amounted to a gang of convicts. Yet life at 
Yaxley must have been monotonous enough. 

For Raoul at least, despite a slow, imhurried progress and 
frequent halts, Thrapston village on the Northampton road, 
where they were to spend the night, was not attained any 
too soon. To a man not long-out of bed it had seemed 
a portentoi^ly lengthy twelve miles (which Sarrelouis had 
informed him was the usual day's stage) and indeed, though 
he did riot know it, it had been nearer fifteen. Raoul had 
rather liked the narrow lanes, for they seemed to hold out 
better prospects of escape than the turnpike road, and 
in one he had seen belated primroses; but as it happen^ 
they were never afterwards to engage in such b5rways. 

At Thrapston they were shepherded into a large bam 
which had been engaged for their occupation, and, to 
Raoul's relief, were unshackled for the night. He had al¬ 
ready been speculating as to his reception at the hands of 
his fellow prisoners when they were removed from the con¬ 
straint of their guards. Once shut into the great dusky 
building—they were not allowed a light—he soon dis¬ 
covered what it was to be. 

They began by exhibiting an ironic and exaggerated re¬ 
spect which was in itself insulting. Such cries resounded as 
^‘Room for the officer. . . . Make way for the captain 
of hussars. . . . Now, you wretched linesmen and 
sailors, out of the way, here comes the cavalry. 

Will the general condescend to sit on this tub? " Raoul de¬ 
clined, and taking as little notice of their facetiousness as 
might be, went and sat himself down on a heap of turnips 
m a far comer, and tried to tear his attention away from 
this stupid mockery to the wonderful thing that had hap¬ 
pened to him on Saturday—^which indeed had been with 
him ever since like a sustaining hand. He might be miser¬ 
able, but he was—unbelievably—blest as well. As a par- 
ticularly offensive remark about the honour of officers came 
to his ears he told himself that not one of these poor devils 
who were now trying his temper had a single soul in England 
to care what became of him. But he . . . once 
again he was sitting on that bench, once again he heard 
her voice, so deeply stirred, felt her agitated hands, and 


THE YOKE-FELLOW 


135 


then, miraculously, her lips on his brow, like the kiss of a 
saint, which he should have received on his knees. For he 
had no illusions about the feeling which had inspired it; so 
might Adrienne have kissed him, had she seen him then. 

But he was recalled from that mental place of refuge to 
the realization that the disorder in the bam was growing, 
and that, for the sake of the future, it was time to put a stop 
to it if he could. 

‘^Look here, my men,” he said, suddenly emerging from 
his dark comer, '‘do you imagine that the English sentinels 
outside are gaining a very favourable idea of what the 
Emperor's soldiers are like, because I do not!” 

"What? not if they see us in our beautiful new uniforms, 
you and me. Captain?” mockingly enquired a scarecrow 
figure, lurching up to the young man and bringing his rags 
into juxtaposition with the smart silver-gray. 

"We was soldiers once; we ain't even deserters now!” 
growled another voice. 

"And most of us never was soldiers,” observed a pri¬ 
vateersman, and added, "Thank God!” on which there was 
a nascent scuffle. 

"At any rate, we are all French here,” went on Raoul, 
making his voice heard with some difficulty. "It is not 
that I want to claim any superiority over you or any right 
to your obedience because I am an officer, for I am only, 
like each of you, a Frenchman in misfortune-” 

"Ah, but you brought your misfortune on yoiirself. 
Captain, by breaking your parole,” put in someone quickly. 
"You wasn't in misfortune before that, like iis poor devils, 
for no fault of our own, but living on the fat of the land 
in a fine house, and free to go where you liked, along of 
being an officer.” 

Raoul kept his temper. "How am I to persuade you, 
mes vieuXy that I did not break my parole?” 

"Not very easily,” sniggered the same speaker. "For if 
you didn't why were you sent to prison—begging your 
pardon, of com*se, for the liberty. General!” 

"I was sent there because an enemy bore false witness 
against me,” replied Raoul succinctly. " I will swear that 
by anything you please. You have therefore no reason 
for treating me with disrespect, and so giving the English 



136 


^^MR. ROWL^^ 


a handle against the Emperor—for that is what you are 
doing by this behaviour.” 

A voice declared that the Emperor would feel this burden 
very little, having enough on his hands without it. And then 
a prisoner of a waggish turn suggested: Hasn’t the Captain 
got a demoiselle—^for sure he has, a handsome hussar like 
him! Let him swear by the white hands of his demoiselle 
that he is not a broke-parole, and I for one will believe him! ” 

The idea caught the unruly assembly. It seemed an odd 
and not very suitable way of asserting his position and 
his innocence, and ... he had no demoiselle! But 
surely Miss Foirest, who had been so heavenly land, would 
lend him her white hands—in thought? So he swore, think¬ 
ing of them again as they had touched him, and no doubt 
he swore with fervour. The shadowy, wolfish crowd ac¬ 
claimed him, and the same wit who had proposed this 
ceremony struck up, with I)itter and calculated irony, the 
marching song "‘A la Premiere Auberge,” and the rest 
roared out the refrain: 

Compagnom, dites me done, dites me done, 
piles, dites, dites me done. 

Si les d’moiselles sont helV oil notes allons/* 

And then, with an odd mixture of bravado and respect, they 
asked the captain if he would sing them a soldiers’ song, 
just to show that there was no ill-will? 

So Raoul, seated on the tub, sang them, after a mo¬ 
ment’s thought, the old air, charming and a little wistful, 
which had floated round the campfires of Louis XIV and 
many a leaguer since: 

''Au jardin de mon pkre, 

Les lauriers sont fleuris; 

Au jardin de mon phe, 

Les lauriers sont fleuris; 

Tons les oiseaux du monde 
Vonty faire leurs nids . . . 

Aupres de ma blonde, 

QuHlfait hon, fait ban, fait bon, 

Aupres de ma blonde, 

^Hl fait bon dormir!^* 


THE YOKE-FELLOW 137 

and they took up the chorus till he came to the seventh 
verse: 


Dites-nous done, la belle, 

Oil done est votf man? 

II est dans la Hollande, 

Les Hollandais Vont pris, 

II est dans la Hollande, 

Les Hollandais Vont pris, 

Que donneriez-vous, belle, 

Pour avoir votre ami? 

Que donneriez-vous, belle. 

Pour avoir votre ami? 

Je donnerais Versailles, 

Paris et Saint-Denis, 

Je donnerais Versailles, 

Paris et Saint-Denis, 

Les tours de Notre-Dame 
Et Veloeher de mon pays,” 

But before he could finish the remaining stanza someone 
burst out with a tremendous oath, and Raoul, looking round 
in surprise, saw that it was his yoke-fellow Sarrelouis, who 
had taken no part in the previous altercation. 

‘‘No more of this, comrades, or one will play the cry¬ 
baby ! \^o wants to be reminded of the elocher de son pays 
here? Besides, you should remember that a few days ago 
the captain bayoneted a sentry, which none of us had the 
pluck or the luck to do, and had his head cut open in doing 
it. You might give him the chance of getting a little rest 
and sleep, you-. 

‘ ‘ Agreed,’' chorused the now quieted audience. We will 
all go to sleep.” They dispersed at once to divide the straw 
which had been thrown into the bam for them. And one 
meek-looldng little man with a lisp (who, as Raoul after¬ 
ward discovered, possessed a most murderous disposition) 
came up to him with tears in his eyes and faltered: “You 
sing like an angel, mon eapitaine! Ah, my poo»" wife at 


138 ‘‘MR. ROWL” 

Lons-le-Saulnier, does she ever think of me like that, I 
wonder?'' 

Ten minutes later Raoul himself was lying in a comer on 
a double pile of straw, fenced off from the rest by two hen¬ 
coops and an old trough which Sarrelouis had discovered 
and placed in position. The march, however, had tired 
him so much that for long he could not sleep. Persistently 
there came into his mind the memory of that winter night 
before the battle of the G^bora, when he had lain with his 
men in a bam in Estremadura much like this. But they 
were his own men, and the morrow had brought that vic¬ 
torious charge for his share in which he had been mentioned 
in the order of the day, had got his promotion, and very 
nearly the Legion of Honour too. Now he was merely one 
of a gang of malefactors going to a living death. 

On the other side of the hencoops Sarrelouis snored like a 
pig, another man was cursing steadily in his sleep, and the 
smell of unwashed humanity and its garments was increas¬ 
ing in volume. But for all that Raoul's last thought, his 
last sensation, was of Juliana Forrest and her lips on his 
brow. To whatever depth he was henceforward to sink, 
he would always have that memory, that seal. 

Although the first day's stage was a long and tiring one, 
the weather had been cool. But next day, as they tramped 
along the road to Wellingborough, the sun took to shining 
^th unspringlike intensity, and, in spite of the fact that 
it was a shady road, Raoul's damaged head soon began to 
ache. By the close of the next day, when they were nearing 
Northampton, he had had sufficient experience to warrant the 
theory that it was always likely to trouble him in heat and 
sunshine, and could only pray that these might not be 
his portion too often, for he was determined not to com¬ 
plain—and indeed had not much chance of doing so. 

The officer in command took no more notice of him than 
of any other of the prisoners. None of the escort was 
brutal, but their charges might have been cattle for all 
the interest that was shown. Sarrelouis the deserter, how¬ 
ever, turned out better than Raoul could have believed 
possible. He never took advantage of his position, he 
never inflicted on his companion during their hours of en- 


THE YOKE-FELLOW 


m 

forced intimacy any of the filthy language which he had at 
his command for others, he made up as good a bed for him 
every night as was possible and never tried to share it— 
in fact, he seemed to have constituted himself a kind of 
orderly. But he could do nothing to make the weather 
less hot and thundery, though he displayed a genuine solici¬ 
tude at its results, and on the sixth night—it was at Chip¬ 
ping Norton in Oxfordshire—stirred up the most fiendish 
tumult in an endeavour to impose silence on the whole barn¬ 
ful because his captain had a headache. It almost came 
to a pitched battle between the marine and the militap^ 
sections, and when the fracas had subsided and Sarrelouis, 
comically crestfallen, came up to Raoul where he lay on 
some sacks with his hands over his ears, the latter very 
nearly cursed him for his misplaced zeal. 

A burning sun next morning gave promise of an ab¬ 
normally hot day, and so it proved; and after an hour or 
two on the road Raoul, in addition to his usual headache, 
began to suffer from momentary spells of dizziness. Sarre¬ 
louis in consequence shoved his elbow under his as a sup¬ 
port, which was not very comfortable for either of them, 
but served to steady the young man when he needed it. 
The sun got hotter and hotter as they trudged along the 
high, shadeless road towards Shipton-under-Wychwood, 
and Raoul began to fear that he might not hold out till 
the end of the march, especially as it was rumoured that it 
was to be a long one. 

At midday, when they crossed the Evenlode by Shipton, 
a halt was called, and Raoul and his inseparable companion 
lay down in the shade of a hedge. Listening to the murmur 
of the stream, and longing inexpressibly to strip off his 
hot, dusty clothes and plunge in, Raoul drifted into a doze, 
from which he was wakened by clumsy fingers spreading 
something wet and cool on his forehead as he lay there. 

“That is delicious,’' he murmured.^ “But how did you 
get it, mon bonf For without dragging his comrade with 
him Sarrelouis could not have gone to the river-brink to 
soak the linen. ^ 

“I got a soldier to go,” responded the Lorrainer, bending 
over him. “ It is your own handkerchief. Mon capitaine^ 
report yourself now to the officer, and fall out. You will 


140 ‘^MR. ROWL^^ 

not be able to go much further, I think. You are as pale 
as a winding-sheet.'' 

“No," said Raoul with his eyes shut. “I am not going 
to do that. And how could I fall out? We have to go on 
somehow, mon vieux, till we . . . arrive." 

“I fell out once in Portugal before I deserted," observed 
Sarrelouis, lying down beside him again. “But, my God, 
that cured me of doing it for a bit!" 

“You got into the hands of the country people, or the 
guerrillas, I suppose? If so, you are lucky to be alive to 
tell it." 

“Agreed," said Sarrelouis. “Since you are indisposed, 
I will not tell you what they did to my companion. My 
faith, every time I thought of it for days afterwards, when 
I was hiding, I would bring up what little food I had man¬ 
aged to put into my belly. . . . But if one got away 
here," he went on musingly, “the country people are not 
like that devil's spawn of Portugal and Spain—^no, not at 
all, I think. . . . Name of a name, is it time to go 

on again already? Wait, I'll help you up, mon petit capi- 
taineJ' 

It was Sunday, and the bells were ringing for afternoon 
service in the great church of Burford as they came down 
the hill into the little town; but by the time that they were 
climbing up the wide steep street out of it again other bells 
seemed to be ringing in Raoul's head also. They had all 
thought that they were at least going to halt in the old 
wool-trading centre (which indeed, by mileage, should 
have been the end of their day’s tramp) but, presumably be¬ 
cause it was church-time. Lieutenant Hunter would not al¬ 
low it, and they pushed on up the hill, the escort as much 
discontented as the prisoners. And when they were up they 
were ordered to proceed along the turnpike which made 
for Northleach and Cheltenham, instead of taking the road 
which made more directly for Cirencester by way of Aid- 
worth, the officer trusting, apparently, to come upon the 
turning to this later on, whereas they had already passed 
it, just outside Burford. 

Neither Raoul nor Sarrelouis was, naturally, aware of this 
fact from his own topographical Imowledge, which was 
nil, but the nearest member of the escort, who happened to 


THE YOKE-FELLOW 


141 


have observed a signpost, was grumbling under his breath, 
and Raoul imderstood the reason only too well. They 
were going miles out of their way, and would either have 
to retrace it or plod along as far as Northleach and then 
timi south. And the road still went, though less steeply, 
uphill, and the sun was hotter than ever. Right and left 
stretched the great Gloucestershire fields, fading into 
miles of distance; down on the right, green and inviting, 
but not for them, was the valley of the Windrush from which 
they had just ascended. 

“I will not give in!’’ declared Raoul to himself; but he 
kept stumbling. 

‘‘Head going round again?” enquired Sarrelquis in his 
husky tones. “I would put an arm round you if I could, 
devil knows. Hola, Englishman, cannot you give the officer 
an arm? ” he said over Raoul’s head to the grumbling soldier 
next the latter. 

“Yes, if he will carry my musket and pack!” retorted 
the militiaman, soured by his geographical presentiments. 

Sarrelouis shrugged his shoulders, and Raoul set his teeth 
and half closed his eyes. They passed through a double 
belt of trees, which was a slight relief, but when they came 
out into the full glare again, he felt quite sick with vertigo, 
and his brain seemed to be hammering at his skull. The 
soldier by his side muttered savagely and far from en¬ 
couragingly, “Going on like this all the way to Northleach, 
I suppose, eight or nine mortal miles before he finds out that 
we have passed the-turn!!” 

However, he was saved that test of endurance, for about 
a quarter of a mile farther on the young hussar captain by 
his side suddenly swayed violently and pitched forward in 
the dust, though his fall was broken by his companion, 
whom he all but dragged down with him. The end of the 
column immediately stopped. 

The officer, looking annoyed, came riding forward from 
the rear, dismounted, and stooped over the fallen prisoner. 

‘‘ Undo the irons,’’ he said curtly to the sergeant. ‘‘ Dam¬ 
nable nuisance, this! Where can we get water? ’ ’ He him¬ 
self was unfastening Raoul’s collar. 

“There is an inn just ahead, Sir,” replied the sergeant, 
preparing to free Sarrelouis, who was kneeling in the road 


142 


^^MR. ROWL” 


beside his prostrate comrade. ‘'In fact, we are almost 
there.” And no doubt his own thoughts were suddenly 
gilded with prospects of another beverage than water. 

It was true. Although it stood on the highway the great 
elms hid the New Inn until one was within a few yards of 
it, but there was no doubt about its presence, low, gray 
and solid, with attendant bams and orchards behind it. 
Sarrelouis, now on his feet, signified that he could carry 
his captain so far. Assisted by the sergeant, he got the 
insensible Raoul up and over his shoulder, and they moved 
on again. 

By the time that the head of the column, with its shuffling, 
or its military step, had come abreast of the New Inn the 
whole personnel of that establishment was collected out¬ 
side. Seeing that there was a wide, low wall in front, 
Sarrelouis carefully deposited his burden thereupon and 
asked for water, which request was also repeated more 
intelligibly by English voices. However, the motherly 
looking landlady, after one glance at the young man with 
the bandaged head lying so limply upon her wall, said to 
the world in general: "You bring him inside at once—this 
way! And I'd like to know what you sodgers has been 
doing to him!” 

And, before the officer at the far end of the throng filling 
the road could either give or withhold his consent to this 
move, Sarrelouis had picked up the still unconscious Raoul 
with surprising ease and celerity and was following the 
speaker in. Mistress of the situation, she preceded him 
through a passage and into a large parlour. 

"Lay the poor boy there,” she said, indicating an enor¬ 
mous sofa under the geranium-filled window. "And, as I 
say, whatever have they been doing to him? Marian, 
fetch some brandy!” She bent over Raoul and began to 
mb his hands. "Look at this wrist now!” And then, 
finding the room filling up behind her back, "Now, I don't 
want all you sodgers in here, thank you! Out you -go! 
What do you suppose the poor fellow can do, laying here 
like this?” 

^ No, Raoul could do nothing . . . except iminten- 
tionally give an opportunity to a very astute philanthro¬ 
pist. By the time it became any one man's business to see 


THE YOKE-FELLOW 


143 


what Sarrelouis was about the Lorrainer was nowhere to be 
found. The hurly-burly which ensued was the first thing 
that greeted Raoul when he opened his eyes again; but 
all the commotion was in vain. The deserter must have 
slipped out of the room unobserved, left the inn by a back 
way, raced down through the sloping orchards, perhaps 
swum the Windrush at the bottom, and was either lying 
perdu or running for his life through the lonely Cotswold 
uplands. It was unlikely that without money or much 
of the English tongue he would retain his freedom long, 
but at any rate he had snatched it now—together with 
Raouks only possession of value, his watch. . . . 

The officer, naturally, was furious over the business. 
He accused Raoul of having known of the project and 
feigned collapse in order to get the chain unfastened. 
Raoul, sitting bewildered on the horsehair sofa, and really 
more dizzy than before, with a different kind of dizziness, 
from the quantity of brandy which the kind landlady 
had poured down his throat, could only shmg his shoulders. 
He did not much mind what was said to him provided only 
that they did not start along that road in the sun again. 

Mercifully they did not. Lieutenant Hunter, who had 
by now discovered his mistake about the route to Ciren¬ 
cester, decided to go no farther that day—and indeed the 
twelve miles had already been considerably exceeded. 
Very ill-temperedly—thinlang no doubt of the similar ar¬ 
rangements already made by the conductor along the 
Aldworth road—^he settled with the mistress of the New 
Inn to quarter his charges for the night in one of her bams. 
Despite her protests, Raoul was removed from the large 
parlour and the unwonted coi^ort of its sofa and com¬ 
mitted to the same incarceration. But before this hap¬ 
pened she had unbandaged and bathed his head, and 
thrust various excellent small pasties upon him. Moreover, 
the straw in her bam was fresher than he had met of late, 
and his companions in misfortune were imusually quiet 
and attentive, considering that he had deseryed well for 
Sarrelouis' escape, some of them indeed believing, like the 
officer, that the whole thing had been prearranged. As for 
Raoiff, he wondered with whom he would be conjoined to¬ 
morrow; someone less tolerable, perhaps, than his late 


144 


^‘MR. ROWL^' 


partner. Judging from the trend of the conversation, there 
might even be some competition for the privilege. Then 
he remembered that they were now an uneven number, 
thirty-one in all, and fell asleep trying to divide thirty-one 
by two . . . and by some strange process succeeding. 


CHAPTER VI 

RAOUL MEETS THE DEVIL IN BRIDGWATER 

“ This, at least . . . is the present reward of virtuous conduct, 

that no unlucl^ consequence can oblige us to repent it.”— Rasselas, 
chap, xxxiv. 

Probably as the result of the longer rest—^for it could 
hardly be attributed to the brandy—Raoul found his head 
much better next morning, though in body he did not feel 
very vigorous. No official enquiry was made as to his con¬ 
dition, nor, indeed, had he expected one. But, to his sur¬ 
prise, after all the other couples in the bam had been 
shackled together, he was marched out alone, led up to the 
already mounted officer, and fastened by his left wnst with 
a stout cord to that gentleman's off stirrup. 

The procession started from the New Inn. It was a 
lovely morning, of a dewy freshness; the road, now level, still 
ran along the crest of the ridge, and afforded beautiful 
wide views. Raoul looked at them, hardly thinking about 
his unusual situation, or the officer whose spurred foot his 
hand was almost touching. The only thing that mattered 
was whether he would be able to get through to-day's 
march without another/a^&Zesse. 

Yet, annoyed though he was at collapsing yesterday, 
it had been beyond his power to prevent it; but that after¬ 
noon at Norman Cross . . . what sort of an idea of a 

soldier of the Empire had he given Miss Forrest on that 
occasion? He had ever since feen acutely ashamed of his 
immanly display; and yet ... it was possible that 
but for it he would never have received from her that 
angelic assurance of compassion. At that moment she had 
been as Notre Dame de Bon Secours, to whom one might 
without reproach disclose one's needs. . . . But since 
145 


146 


‘^MR. ROWL” 


that day no many at any rate, had seen him show the white 
feather—^nor was any man going to. 

They had gone perhaps a couple of miles in silence when 
Lieutenant Hunter said suddenly, ''Take hold of the|stirrup 
leather.^' And as Raoul, surprised, looked up at him he 
added, just as abruptly, "That will help you along, won't 
it?" 

"Thank you," said Raoul, and, moving his hand a little, 
gripped the taut thong. 

Silence descended for another half mile or so, then the 
rider demanded: "How did you contrive to time your 
swoon so well yesterday?" 

"One hardly times those events," replied Raoul with a 
little frown. 

"It was suspiciously near the inn, however. If that 
ruffian had not carried you in there, he would never have 
got away." 

"I knew nothing of any inn," replied Raoul briefly. "I 
went on as long as I could, that is all." 

"We have a long march before us to-day," was the next 
observation. 

"I assure you that I shall not fall out again if I can help 
it," responded the tethered young man. Then he added 
politely: "This stirrup-leather will be a great assistance 
to me." 

The officer said nothing, and Raoul returned to his re¬ 
flections. The lieutenant could hardly continue to believe 
in his collusion with Sarrelouis if he were to tell him— 
which he did not mean to do—of the episode of his watch, 
the absence of which he himself had not discovered till this 
morning. Yet, after the first shock of disgust, he could 
almost wish the thief luck of it, for his compassion had been 
as genuine as his opportunism, and, as the English said, 
one could not make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear. But 
the loss was more than pecuniary and inconvenient, for the 
watch had^ been his father’s. . . . What would his 

father say if he could see him now, tied up to an enemy’s 
saddle! Probably that it was the fitting reward for serving 
a parvenu like Bonaparte. . . . Pauvre pere, he would 
be terribly upset. . . . Luckily he could not see. 
He believed his son to be in prison, it was true, but only 


RAOUL MEETS THE DEVIL 


147 


because the privilege of parole had been temporarily with¬ 
drawn for a time—a fiction which Raoul had hoped his 
family would not discover to be such. Of his latest mis¬ 
fortune they were as yet ignorant; he supposed it would 
have to be broken to them somehow. . . . 

Here the saddle above him gave a creak, he felt fingers 
about his wrist, and, turning his head, found that the 
officer was stooping. 

“The cord is not loose—not at all,” remarked the pris¬ 
oner. 

“I was feeling if it were not, on the contrary, too tight,” 
responded the rider, as curtly as ever. “Were you in irons 
at Norman Cross, before you started?” 

“Yes, for three days.” 

“ I thought so. "TOy is your hand bleeding now?” 

Raoul looked at it. “From my own carelessness, I ex¬ 
pect. I must have scratched it against your spur.” 

“I’m sorry,” said the officer with extreme brevity, and 
the conversation dropped once more. On the whole, 
Raoul did not regret this; he could better devote his energies 
to the business in hand—getting to Cirencester. He cer¬ 
tainly did not regret that he had the stirrup leather. 

Northleach at last, and a halt. The officer dismounted 
and went into the innyard, while Raoul hastily threw his 
arm over the saddle, and, leaning against the horse, stared 
very hard at the fine old church in front of hun, round 
whose pinnacled tower the swifts were holding their aerial 
games. 


“ Je donnerai Versailles, 

Paris et Saint-Denis, 

Les tours de Notre-Dame 

EtVclocher demon pays . . .” 

The officer came out again, followed by an ostler leading 
a saddle horse. 

“I am going to mount you as far as Cirencester” he 
said shortly to Raoul, and began untying the cord. 

“You are very kind. Sir,” said the young man, greatly 


148 


‘‘MR. ROWL” 


surprised. “But, though I would willingly do so, I have 
no money to pay for the hire of a horse.’’ 

“The Transport Board must do that,” replied the lieu¬ 
tenant, “if they give me men to conduct who are not fit to 
march.” 

And Raoul got up, thankful for the indulgence, what¬ 
ever were the officer’s motive in granting it. He had not 
been across a horse since the day of Salamanca, when his 
own beloved Bayard had been killed under him. He 
was not now allowed the reins, and the cord, still round 
his wrist, was in the grasp of the soldier who had control of 
these; but in this manner he voyaged comfortably enough 
along the Foss Way, the cortege having turned south for 
Cirencester just beyond Northleach. 

Prisoners and escort alike were tired when they got there, 
and Raoul felt rather ashamed of the privilege of being 
mounted. One or two remarks of no kindly nature were 
indeed made about it that night in the stables of the inn 
where they were quartered. Next morning, therefore, he 
got hold of the sergeant when he entered to put on the 
fetters of the rest, and said that if the officer were thinking 
of procuring a horse for him that day he was deeply grate¬ 
ful, but that as he was now quite recovered he would prefer 
to go on foot like the others. 

So he was once more attached to Lieutenant Hunter’s stir¬ 
rup; but as this operation was carried through, not outside 
a lonely inn, but in the middle of busy Cirencester, it at¬ 
tracted some attention and comment. The officer’s brow was 
like thunder, and Raoul himself did not much relish the pub¬ 
licity of it. And the charger, possibly too well supplied 
with com in that hunting centre, was unusually mettlesome 
after they had started, which, though it occasioned no par¬ 
ticular disturbance to his rider, was once or twice distinctly 
imcomfortable for the prisoner, and a shade ignominious as 
well. He was obliged to hold tightly to the stirrup leather 
to prevent sudden drags of the cord upon his wrist. 

“Be quiet, you brute!” exclaimed Lieutenant Hunter in 
extreme exasperation, as a wilder plunge almost took Raoul 
off his feet. “I’ll teach you to play the circus horse!” 
And, by a very liberal use of the curb, he did succeed in 
subduing his steed, so that by the time they were out of 


RAOUL MEETS THE DEVIL 149 


Cirencester the animars behaviour had become normal 
again. But his rider’s temper had not. 

It is a thrice-damned nuisance, having you strung on to 
me like this!” he observed angrily to Raoul, as though it 
were an arrangement forced on him by the latter, and 
Raoul was moved to retort drily that it was no source of en- 
jojrment to him, either. And then, after a quarter of an 
hour’s complete silence, Mr. Hunter electrified him by 
saying abruptly: 

“Suppose you gave me your parole of honour and 


marched free? 

“My parole!” exclaimed Raoul. A slow fiush burnt his 
face. “Would you take it? I am supposed to have broken 
it once.” 

“I know that,” snapped the officer. “No, I have no 
right to take it, and if you break it I shall get into the 
deuce of a mess. Perhaps that consideration might have 
some slight weight with you?” 

“No, not in the least,” was the young Frenchman’s 
unexpected reply. “My parole, once given, does not de¬ 
pend on ‘considerations.’” 

Lieutenant Hunter looked down at him and then gave 
a short laugh. “Upon my soul! If you really have those 
sentiments, then . . .” 

Raoul reflected. Tied up or chained up he had no more 
chance of escaping than if he were inexorably bound by his 
word, and by one method or the other he must, obviously, 
be secured. Moreover, he had never seriously contemplated 
an attempt to escape during the day, surroimded^ as he 
was by an armed escort and clad in his very noticeable 
uniform, but he still hoped that there might come a 


“I will give you my word of honour to make no attempt 
to escape on the march,” he said. ^ ^ 

“Ah, you intend to make off during the night, then?^ 
“I don’t say so,” replied Raoul. “But I do say that if 
you also require my parole for those hours when we are 
all unfettered, you are putting too high a price on the 
privilege you offer. I will give you my promise for the 
daytime, and thank you for the courtesy, but otherwise 
I must refuse it.” 


150 


‘‘MR. ROWL^^ 


“Well, I suppose I must be content with that,'' said the 
lieutenant. “You definitely engage, then, to make no at¬ 
tempt to escape during the day, on the march?" 

“I give you my most solemn word of honour not to do so," 
replied Raoul, looking straight up at him. 

“Very good," said Mr. Hunter, and lost no time in acting 
on this assurance. He withdrew his foot from the stirrup, 
pulled up the iron, and cut the cord with a penknife. “At 
the next halt I will tell the sergeant about you, and you 
may march where you please in the column. For the pres¬ 
ent, however, you had better stay here." 

Raoul thanked him. He was puzzled by this treatment; he 
had made not the slightest attempt to work on the officer’s 
feelings, and after the affair of Sarrelouis had been fully 
prepared for harsh dealing. Nor did the lieutenant's man¬ 
ner to him suggest leniency; yet first he had procured him 
a horse, and now was extending to him an indulgence that 
Raoul had never dreamt of, and which might very well get 
its originator into trouble if it ever came to be known. He 
concluded that Mr. Hunter must dislike his society so much 
that he was willing to go to any lengths to be rid of it. Yet 
surely, in that case, he could have had him tied up to one 
of the escort, since regulations declared that he had lost 
his status as an officer. 

“You are welcome to my stirrup leather still, if you wish," 
said the object of his surmises presently, and Raoul, thank¬ 
ing him, took it again, not wishing to appear churlish. And 
now that Mr. Hunter no longer had him on the end of a 
string he seemed to have a weight off his mind also, and 
became a little more talkative; for the first time addressed 
him as “Captain," enquired about his military experiences 
in the Peninsula, and expressed regret that he himself had 
not seen service there. 

That day's stage and the next were designedly short 
ones, and this fact, together with his having had a mount 
and the absence of hot sun, worked a remarkable change 
in Raoul's physical condition. He was no longer giddy, nor 
did his head ache; indeed he was soon feeling positive benefit 
from the open air and the exercise which had been denied 
him at Norman Cross. 


RAOUL MEETS THE DEVIL 15l 

But all the while he and his companions were proceeding 
steadily nearer to their doom. At Chilcompton eight men 
made a determined effort to escape after dark. Raoul, as 
it happened, knew nothing of this design—and thinking it 
over afterwards he suspected that they had been careful 
to keep it from him, for since he had been paroled they had 
shown a certain jealousy and suspicion of him, though 
they had never been openly disrespectful after the first 
night at Thrapston. But the attempt was frustrated, and 
one of the fugitives slightly wounded. 

Raoul himself still cherished the idea of escape during the 
night, but he intended his attempt, when he made it, to 
be successful, and so far he had seen no really good open- 
mg. He was mentally hampered as well by a perfectly 
illogical feeling that his escape would be a poor return for 
Lieutenant Hunter’s indulgence. He knew that this was 
a ridiculous scruple, yet he almost wished, sometimes, 
that he had not accepted his offer. But the days went 
on; Bath, Wells, Glastonbury were behind the pilgrims; 
soon they would be in Devonshire itself, and the picture 
of the hulks began to loom more and more blackly. Raoul 
was not going tamely to them without one final throw 
for liberty, whatever it cost . . . when the chance 
came. 

It did come, on the fifteenth day—^but not as he had ex¬ 
pected. 

They had just marched through Bridgwater, and were 
going to make their prolonged midday halt about half a 
mile on the farther side of the town when Raoul, discovering 
that he had lost his one remaining pocket-handkerchief, 
asked the lieutenant if he might go back into Brid^ater 
and buy one. Mr. Hunter readily gave him permission, 
warning him, however, to be back in three quarters of an 
hour, and Raoul walked off, unescorted, as in the days of 
Wanfield, which now seemed so remote. 

Merely for the pleasure of feeling free to do so, he spent 
some time in the little linen-draper’s shop, although they 
were out of pocket-handkerchiefs. “Yii’rn a furriner, 
zurelye,” observed the apple-cheeked old Somerset woman, 
looking at his uniform, and Raoul admitted it. 

“And wheer be gwine tii?” she asked, evidently not hav- 


152 


‘‘MR. ROWL^' 


ing been among the inhabitants who had turned out to wit¬ 
ness the passage of the gang a little before. 

“To the hulks, mother/’ replied Raoul. “I am a French 
prisoner.” 

The old lady lifted up her hands and exclaimed in horror. 
“My dear soul! Yii, so comely as yii be, to one of they 
tarrible plaaces! Jan, Jan, dii ee hear that? ” she called out 
to someone behind, and Raoul had a momentary glimpse of 
a bearded man in a jersey before he bade her farewell and 
left the little shop. 

He had still, he saw by a clock, plenty of time, and 
strolled about the town a little, not unnoticed by various 
small boys. Just by an old inn whose carving interested 
him he felt a touch on his arm, and turning, saw the bearded 
man of the linen-draper’s shop, with a companion of the 
same type. 

“Us do want a word wi’ ee, Zur,” he said in a low voice, 
and impelled by curiosity Raoul went with them a little 
way up the alley at the side of the hostelry. 

“Us do belong to Minehead, Zur,” continued the bearded 
one, “and our boat be here tu the quay, and wi’ tide gwine 
down and wind astern . . . and ’tis only a matter of 

five mile down the Parrett any day . . .” 

“The parrot—five miles—^what on earth do you mean?” 
asked Raoul bewildered. 

The bearded Jan approached still nearer; he smelt of 
ropes, tar, and a little of fish. “Bain’t ee ^^ench officer, 
and don’t ee want a boat to the coast, and no questions 
aasked, lyin’ snug under a spare sail? ” His eyes twinkled 
suggestively. 

Raoul stared at him as if he were the Serpent compounded 
with Eve. “I . . . I can’t,” he said slowly, turning 
rather pale. “I have given my word not to escape.” 

“Then the more fiile yii, aaskin’ your pardon,” observed 
the other man. 

“Come now,” said Jan coaxingly, “once yii’m out of they 
crazy clo’es, and wi’ a jersey on your back, who’s to say a 
word to ee between here and Bridgwater Bay? And once 
in the Bristol Channel—speakin’ the tongue so easy-like— 
yii’ye but to work round the coast in a fishing-smack or tu, 
and in Mount’s Bay—full o’ smugglers ’tis—yti taakes ” 


RAOUL MEETS THE DEVIL 153 

'‘No, no!’' said Raoul, backing away from the siren, on 
which the other took up the tale. 

“ Is it money, Zur? tTs can zee as yii’m a gentleman, 
and us would trust ee till such time as-” 

“For God’s sake, don’t tempt me like this!” cried poor 
Raoul, and, pushing him off, literally ran out of the alley, 
and made as fast as he could along the street, so fast that 
a spectator mi^ht have thought he was really absconding. 

' And then he remembered that he had not bought his 
handkerchiefs. He went into another linen-draper’s, where 
he had to wait before he could be served, so that when at 
last he came in sight of the encampment by the roadside 
he saw signs of activity and deduced that he had exceeded 
the time allotted to him. He quickened his steps once 
more. A boat—the river—the Bristol Channel only five 
miles away . . . oh, if only he could, if only he could! 

It was a cruel vision, and he felt that it was going to haunt 
him. 

He came up to the group in the road. But his head was 
too full of where he might have been to observe the ex¬ 
pression on the face of the sergeant as he called out to Mr. 
Hunter, already in the saddle, “Here he is. Sir!” 

“Am I late. Sir?” enquired Raoul. “I am extremely 
sorry.” Then, like a thunderclap, comprehension came 
to him. They were surprised to see him at all! 

“ I understood that you had accepted my parole,” he said 
in a hard voice, looking very straight at the young man on 
the horse. 

“I—^yes—that is-Oh, damn it, there has been some 

misunderstanding,” stammered Mr. Hunter. “Fall in!” 
he said sharply to the men, and then swung off his horse and 
approached the Frenchman where he stood stiffly in the 
road, clutching his little parcel rather tightly. “You must 
forgive me, but I thought . . . and when I heard that 

you had been seen talking to a couple of sailors-” 

“You sent a spy after me, then!” 

“ I told the sergeant to follow you-Put yourself in 

my place, des Sablieres!” cried Lieutenant Hunter, now 
thoroughly shaken. “ I know very little of you, I ought not 
to have made this arrangement about parole—and when you 
had gone, it appeared to me that you had created this op- 


154 


ROWL^' 


portunity for yourself rather too neatly; I felt what a 
thundering fool I had been—and when the sergeant came 
back and reported that you had given him the slip but that 
someone had seen you in conversation with two fishermen, 
I thought the temptation had been too much for you” 
‘‘Well, it was, nearly,^^ admitted Raoul, a queer little 
smile creeping round his mouth. “You see, it was so un¬ 
expected—for my errand, I assure you, was quite genuine, 
and I had no idea that I was going to ... to meet 
the Devil in Bridgwater.^^ 

“You mean you had the chance of getting away?” 
“Since you ask, yes. I suppose I might already be 
sailing down the river with a curious name—^by invitation. 
But, of course, it was not possible. ... I am sorry 
if I have delayed you.” 

“Will you accept my most profound apologies?” asked 
Mr. Hunter, studying the road with a noticeable increase of 
colour on his countenance. “I shall know better next 
time.” And raising his eyes he drew himself up, and sa¬ 
luted his prisoner as he might have done Lord Wellington 
himself. 


CHAPTER VII 
NO ESCAPE 

His wish still continued, but his hope grew less. He . . . de¬ 

termined to keep his design always in view, and lay hold on any 
expedient that time should offer.— Rasselas, chap. v. 

It was with their arrival at Exeter on the seventeenth day 
that Raoul realized with a shock that he had only three 
nights left. He must make his dash for liberty within that 
space, or never make it at all. And he could only seize 
flying chance by the skirts, since to plan anything before¬ 
hand was impossible, when he knew nothing of the country, 
nor where the conductor would lodge them each night. 

The first night after leaving Exeter they lay at Chud- 
leigh, where circumstances were unfavourable; the second at 
BucMastleigh, where they were even less propitious. Next 
morning Raoul told himself desperately that he must make 
his attempt that night wherever they were to be confined. 
If only it might be, as it often had been, some ramshackle 
and deserted bam! 

But their place of temporary confinement turned out to 
be exceedingly unlike this desired haven, for, to Raoul's 
surprise, it was a church, standing in a graveyard in the 
middle of a little town. It appeared that there was no other 
building in the place capable of containing them with 
safety, and the conductor had, rather rashly, Raoul thought, 
guaranteed that no harm should be done to monuments 
or furniture. 

The men laughed as they were shepherded into this un¬ 
familiar kind of barracks, and most of them set to work 
to explore its possibilities. A few proposed breaking down 
some of the pews and making a fire in the aisle to dry their 
damp clothing (for it had been a rainy day) and were de¬ 
terred from this project much less by Raoul's remonstrances 

155 


156 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


than by the discovery that there was no reliable tinder- 
box to be had. So, after one of them had delivered a short 
and ribald discourse from the three-tiered pulpit, and several 
had scrawled their names, as well as they could see to do it 
in the gloom, on the mural tablets, they settled down for 
the night in the capacious pews. 

But Raoul still wandered round the walls, a gray shadow 
amid the grayness, feeling, tapping, shaking when there 
was anything to shake. The others, talking or snoring, 
took no notice of him, save once to shout a suggestion that 
he was sleep-walking, and so, when he felt his way into the 
small square bell-tower which stood like an alcove at the 
end of the church, he passed from their remembrance as 
well. 

It was not probable that there would be any separate 
exit to this place, nevertheless he pursued his slow and 
methodical voyage round its walls. If there were one it 
would be like all the other doors, solid and solidly fastened. 

. . . Sainte Vierge—there was one—his exploring 

fingers had suddenly come on wood instead of stone: a door, 
a small door—^but a fastened door, of course. There was 
a lock, but no key. Higher up, as he had already felt, 
there was a latch, and half mechanically his hand went 
back to it. It was stiff, and had remained lifted. For 
what reason Raoul did not know he took hold of it with 
both hands to pull it down again; and incontinently felt 
the door tremble with the slight pressure on it, as an un¬ 
fastened door might tremble. Impossible! . . . But 
he pulled harder . . . towards him . . . and with 

only a little reluctance the door followed the pull. It was 
not fastened. 

The sweat started out on the explorer as he stood there, 
the fingers of his left hand stealing round the edge of the 
little door, the others still on the latch. Now, was he going 
to share his discovery with the men in the church? No; 
it would be madness, for they would all troop out instantly, 
reckless as they were, and be shot down by the sentries 
outside. On the other hand, ought he to monopolize this 
startling opportunity? At any rate, he would not summon 
the others yet; he would slip through and reconnoitre first. 
Next moment he had done so, and was moving cautiously 


NO ESCAPE 157 

along the outer wall of the church, his heart beating almost 
to suffocation. 

He had known that he should find no moon, but for all 
that it was much lighter outside than he had realized, dis¬ 
concertingly light. Every tombstone was more or less 
visible, and he certainly would be. He stopped. It would 
be better to return to the church and wait a little. . . . 
Too late—here was a sentry coming round the bell-tower; 
he was already between him and the little door. 

Raoul slipped past the next buttress, then dropped to 
his hands and knees and crawled; and thus progressing 
among the tombs, this time at right angles to the building, 
had the satisfaction of getting almost to the cover afforded 
by a large upstanding family momunent when, without 
the slightest warning, a bullet splintered into it just ahead 
of him, knocking chips of stone in all directions. Most 
disagreeably surprised and startled, and paying no heed to 
the belated shout of ''Halt, or I fire!” which now reached 
his ears, the fugitive then took the perilous course of spring¬ 
ing to his feet and running. 

In another locality the course might have been a sound 
one, but a graveyard is no place for a twilight sprint, and 
so Raoul found. Before he could pick himself up from the 
flat tombstone over which he had tripped and fallen head¬ 
long a sentry was on him, his hands at his throat, and in 
an incredibly short time was joined by another as zealous 
as himself. Indeed the vigorous fight which the recap¬ 
tured prisoner put up was less for liberty than to save 
himself from strangulation. In the end, breathless, dis¬ 
hevelled, bruised, and generally rather limp, he was taken 
back through the little tower door, which had meanwhile 
been discovered and guarded, and thrown into one of the 
high, roomy pews. 

Shouts, shot, and reentry had roused the i^est of the 
prisoners to excitement, which the soldiers, cursing the au¬ 
thor of it, had now to quell. In the middle of the turmoil 
arrived Mr. Hunter, at whose advent it soniewhat died 
down. He had ordered the little door to be nailed up from 
the outside, and the noise of hammering was already re¬ 
sounding when he unexpectedly appeared at the door of 
RaouFs residence, with a lantern-bearing orderly behind 


‘^MR. ROWL'' 


158 

him—so unexpectedly, indeed, that he took its occupant by 
surprise, and found him still rather dazed and breathless, 
sitting in a comer with disordered hair and dabbing at a 
graze on his temple. 

“Are you hurt, des Sablieres?^' he enquired in an un¬ 
emotional voice. 

Raoul instantly put away his handkerchief and rose to 
his feet. “Only my clothes. Sir. I have no complaint to 
make.” 

The officer surveyed him for a second in the light of the 
lifted lantern. Some of the scarlet frogs had indeed been 
wrenched away from the breast of the gray dolman, and the 
high military collar was gaping after its departed hooks, 
while the red and white sash round his waist, some of its 
twisted strands broken and hanging down, was several 
inches away from the locality prescribed by the Imperial 
regulations. * 

“ Did any one outside tell you about that door or help you 
in anyway?” 

“No one. Sir. I came on it almost by chance.” 

“Very good,” said Lieutenant Hunter, and withdrew; 
and five minutes later, when lanterns and clattering boots 
had gone, the church settled down to almost its usual noc¬ 
turnal silence. 

Aching and horribly disappointed, Raoul stretched him¬ 
self out on the wide seat of the pew, with his head on a moth- 
eaten hassock. The high wooden walls of his retreat gave 
him such privacy as he had not known since he left Wan- 
field, and such as he certainly would not know to-morrow 
night; and finally he slept, undisturbed by the mice which 
ran over his legs. 

Opinions were freely expressed in the church next morn¬ 
ing that the Captain, after last night's exploit, would not 
be allowed to march free for this, the last day's journey. 
Even Raoul himself felt a little doubtful. . . . But no; 
he was not to have any slur cast on his word now. Mr. 
Hunter made no reference to the occurrence, nor indeed 
did any conversation pass between them. Raoul walked 
in his usual place, unfettered and rather dishevelled. 

It was raining slightly when they crossed the Erme; 


NO ESCAPE 159 

more heavily when they came to the Yealm, and Raoul 
pulled his pelisse over his shoulders. One more of these 
beautiful free-falling rivers that Dartmoor sent as a mes¬ 
sage to the sea and they would be in Plymouth. But 
before they crossed the Heavy they halted for the last time, 
a spot being chosen, for the sake of shelter, where the road 
ran through a tiny wood. The rain, however, had ceased 
now, though the trees were dripping, and the air was hot 
and steamy. Raoul sat down at a distance from the rest 
on a fallen trunk. He was conscious of every leaf of his 
surroundings, for something warned him how often he 
would think of this day, and long for a road, even in the 
rain—he who had made such a poor use of last night's great 
opportunity, who could not bring off a successful escape 
even when le bon Dieu had left a door open for him. . . . 

As he sat there, his eyes fixed on some narrow ribbons of 
leaves, shining with wet and exultantly green, which poured 
themselves forth from between two mossy stones near him, 
he was suddenly aware of Lieutenant Hunter's presence. 

''Don't get up," said the Englishman abruptly. "I 
want to speak to you.'' He sat down beside him on the tree, 
and then said nothing. 

It was Raoul who broke the silence. "What do you call 
that plant in English? " he asked, pointing. 

"Hart's-tongue fern—tongue of a deer, you know. 

. . . I thought we had better say good-bye now, des 
Sablieres, while we have the chance." 

Raoul looked at him. " It is very good of you to say it 
at all, after last night. I am sorry I put you to all that 
trouble. I hope at least that you had not gone to bed?" 

"No," said Mr. Hunter. 

"I shall always remember you, and your consideration. 
Sir," went on Raoul warmly. After all, it seemed to be he 
who was doing the leave-taking. 

"There was not much of that shown you last night, I am 
afraid," muttered Mr. Hunter, with an eye on his prisoner's 

uniform. "I can't help wishing-" And there he 

stopped. 

"That I had never found that little door of mine?" sup¬ 
plied Raoul, and looked at him with almost a twinkle in his 
eye. 


160 


^^MR. ROWL” 


But Mr. Hunter, with his teeth in his lip, was mutely 
studying the wet grass between his boots. After a moment 
he took up the riding switch which lay across his knees 
and began to examine that in its turn with close atten¬ 
tion. 

‘"You do not need to assure me, des Sablieres,'' he said 
indistinctly, ‘'that, whatever people say, you never broke 
your parole before you were sent to Norman Cross. I 
don't mind telling you that your behaviour at Bridgwater 
has given me a better opinion of the French officer in that 
respect than I have ever had before." 

“Well, you could not give me a handsomer valediction 
than that," said Raoul, smiling. 

And apparently it was Mr. Hunter’s valediction, for he 
now got up, and Raoul did the same. 

“You said the other day that you had someone working 
for your release, I think. I can heartily say that I wish 
him success." 

“Thank you," returned Raoul pleasantly. “I also nat¬ 
urally wish . . . him . . . the same." 

Still Mr. Hunter lingered, switching rather savagely at 
the hart’s-tongue fern. 

“Oh, don’t do that!" exclaimed Raoul impulsively. 
“You see, it will be there—to-morrow." 

Shooting a rather perplexed glance at him, Mr. Hunter 
desisted. “You make me wish that I could give you back 
what you gave me that day near Cirencester," he said, 
colouring in a curious and as it were reluctant fashion. “ I 
mean—without the alternative. . . . But it is too late 
now." 

Raoul was startled in his turn, and touched as well. 
“It would always have been too late. Lieutenant," he 
replied. “A poor return, too, that would have been for 
your kindness!" 

“Well, whether your friend succeeds or no, des Sabli- 
eres, I should like to know when you leave the prison- 
ship. It would be some compensation to me for—having 
to take you there. Address me at Norman Cross . . . 

if you think it worth the trouble. Good-bye." He shook 
hands and walked towards his horse; and a few minutes 
later the whole convoy was once more in motion. 


NO ESCAPE 161 

Over the Heavy, through the streets of Plymouth with 
their sailors and their slatterns, and now in heavily falling 
rain. If only this, the last stage of the three weeks’ pil¬ 
grimage, could have been prolonged a little! The hapless 
wayfarers did their best to spin it out; they lagged and had 
to be admonished. To Raoul that march through the 
breadth of Plymouth was like being in the grip of a gigantic 
hand which slowly tightened and tightened . . . 

At last they were come to the end of solid ground, for 
they were in a dockyard, on a quay, where a guard of 
marines from the hulks was already awaiting* them. The 
conductor was with these, and he and Lieutenant Hunter 
formally made over their unhappy charges to the lieutenant 
in command of this party. 

“Why is that man loose?” demanded the latter, pointing 
to Raoul. 

“Because he is an officer, and I allowed him his parole, 
which he has most faithfully observed,” replied Mr. Hunter. 

“You must know. Sir, that there are no officers, and con¬ 
sequently no parole, here!” was the angry retort. “Fm to 
have him jumping out of the boat, I suppose! Tie him up 
at once!” 

And in the twinkling of an eye Raoul found his hands se¬ 
cured with naval thoroughness—behind his back this time. 
He tried to catch Lieutenant Hunter’s eye and smile, but 
the soldier, cursing under his breath, would not look at 
him. 

Soon they were being tumbled into the pinnace which 
was waiting alongside on the gray waters of the Hamoaze. 
The crew bent to their oars, the quay receded. Raoul kept 
himself from looking where they were going, for indeed the 
impulse was strong on him to leap, boimd as he was, into 
those unfriendly waters. To keep it down he tried, not 
for the first time, to make himself believe that on arrival 
at the prison-ship he should find awaiting him an order from 
the Transport Board for his restoration to parole, that he 
should set foot on the hulk only to leave it again. Three 
weeks was long enough, surely, for some step to have been 
taken; Lord Fulgrave was a peer, a Privy Councillor, he had 
heard—and he himself an innocent man. 

But when at last he lifted his eyes and had his first sight 


162 


‘^MR. ROWL^^ 


of the hulks, lying out in mid-stream like a string of giant 
blots on the water, his heart died within him. ^ It was hard 
to believe that any good fortune could be waiting in those 
black sarcophagi. Yet every one of them had been in the 
past one of the most beautiful things that man has ever 
made, and the nearest to a living being —a full-rigged ship, 
splendid in majesty and motion. Now, stripped, dis¬ 
masted, like birds without wings or trees demolished by the 
axe, they were not only lifeless but degraded, even less 
honourable in their immobility than the slave-brig buffeted 
by the rollers of the Guinea coast. 

Except for some slight difference in size, a horrible uni- 
forrnity reigned in these floating prisons, moored each 
behind the other for mutual surveillance. Each had a 
couple of jury masts, with one yard; round each, nearly at 
the level of the water, ran a gallery for the sentries; in each 
the boats were all drawn up save one, secured to the raft 
at the foot of the accommodation ladder by an iron chain. 
The pinnace’s crew took her to the third of the hulks; it 
was, so Raoul found later, the Ganges. They were herded 
out of the boat; he went up the last of all, so hustled by 
the impatient marine behind him that, pinioned as he was, 
he alniost fell. And as he mounted the ladder he knew, 
knew in every fibre of him, that there was no order of 
release here. For a second he looked up with hungry eyes 
at the gull sailing effortless overhead ere he stumbled on to 
the dark deck which opened before him. 

Three quarters of an hour later, deprived of his uniform 
and clothed in a hideous and ill-fitting orange-yellow garb 
branded with the great T. and 0. of the Transport Office 
(an ignominy which he had never anticipated) Raoul des 
Sablieres stood in the lower battery of the Ganges gazing, 
with a sick horror, through an atmosphere in which he 
could scarcely breathe, at its half-starved and half-naked 
population. The battery was only about thirty feet by 
f 9 rty; it was so low that a tall man could not stand up¬ 
right, and the only light and air came from a dozen or so 
small ports about eighteen inches square. In this space, 
furnished only with a bench running round it and four in 
the middle, were penned between three and four hundred 


NO ESCAPE 163 

beings in various stages of misery, disease, and degradation 
—his future companions. 

It was the hour for a meal, and the hungry inmates of this 
inferno were clustered into groups round some great iron 
pots into which, like a pack of savages, they were ravenously 
dipping their tin cups, or even their hands. Of knife or 
spoon there was not a trace anywhere. . . . Well, he 

would starve rather than do that in their company. And 
as he stood there half stupefied with the clamour, watching 
the throng of evil faces, some of which, no doubt, had, when 
their owners first entered this place, been as unbranded as 
his own, Raoul felt as a drowning man may feel whose 
fingers can no longer grip the spar which has kept him 
afloat. It would be profanation to think of Juliana Forrest 
here; he had better forget her. That pure kiss of hers 
which he still carried would wither in this atmosphere; for 
here—one could feel it instantly—was not misery merely, 
but depravity. 

A hand touched him on the arm, and, looking round, he 
saw an elderly man clothed in nothing but a pair of old 
breeches. 

'‘A new arrival, I take it,” he observed in a voice which 
retained traces of education. ''Does not the look of the 
soup make your mouth water? To-morrow we shall have 
dried fish that has been going the round for months, because, 
since even we cannot eat it, we sell it back to the contractor 
again. But you—those clothes are new—^you can stake 
them for a great deal; and have you not a watch or some 

tnnkets or other? Fll play you for your watch-” 

His hand shook on Raoul's arm. 

It was here as in the prisons then—the imhappy creatures 
gambled away their very rags, the very bread out of their 
mouths. But before Raoul could make any reply he was 
seized by the other arm, and the face of a damned soul, 
yellow and leering, was looking into his. 

"Ah, another recruit!” it chuckled. "And where, my 
fine fellow, do you think you are going to sling your ham¬ 
mock to-night? ” 

"By a scuttle—if I am to be alive in the morning,” an¬ 
swered the young man, half choked already. 

"I daresay! Places near the scuttles are all taken, 


164 


^‘MR. ROWL^^ 


you-” The leer became more pronounced. ''But for 

money, for a great deal of money- ” 

" I have no money,” said Raoul. 

" Then you can sling your hammock in hell, for all I care! ” 
snarled the purveyor of breathing-spaces, and, aiming an 
ineffectual kick at him, turned away. 

It was, indeed, where Raoul slimg it, and where he lay 
all night gasping, and thinking, sometimes saying to him¬ 
self, "0 God, how am I going to endure this . . . how 
can I?” 



PAET III 

THE MAKING OF A WILDCAT 



CHAPTER I 
TIGHT SHOES 

“You shall be willingly supplied with such conveniences for the 
night as this cavern will afford.”— Rasselas, chap. xxi. 

On the edge of the road which runs from Tawton in South 
Devon down to the little port of Stowey there was growing 
in the summer of 1813 a certain gigantic elm, larger and 
more stately than its fellows. For some two hundred years 
it had duly thrown its quota of shade over the heads of the 
travellers and countryfolk who passed below it, though but 
few X)f these had been conscious of its separate identity. 
The sudden death of this tree, however, was to attract more 
attention than its long and serviceable life had ever done. 
For on the evening of the eleventh of August in that year, a 
windy but not excessively windy day, the cables which for 
so long had moored the great elm to the soil were snapped 
without warning, as is the way with its kind, and, with a 
vast crashing and rending, it fell, and—since the hour 
was too far advanced to begin sawing operations—^lay where 
it fell, presenting an impassable barrier to all vehicles on 
the Stowey road, and a pleasing test of gymnastic ability 
to the young of the nearest cottages. By them ‘‘the day 
th^ girt ellum blawed down” would be agreeably remem¬ 
bered; and Captain Hervey Barrington, R. N., of ‘"Fair- 
haven,” Stowey, was to remember it also. 

He was at this moment one of the descending passengers 
of the stage-coach plying twice a day between Stowey and 
Tawton, which conveyance, having received no previous 
warning of the downfall of the elm, had just come to a 
rather indignant standstill before the prostrate giant, and 
this at seven in the evening. Some of its occupants—in¬ 
deed, all who had any baggage worth mentioning—were 
favouring the alternative of returning in the coach to Taw- 
167 


‘‘MR. ROWL” 


168 

ton and spending the night there. But Captain Barring¬ 
ton, who had only been to that little town for the day on 
business, was not encumbered in this way, nor did a three- 
mile walk in the least dismay him. 

Very soon the bulk of the great elm, sprawling like Go¬ 
liath across the road, was exercising, not without laughter, 
the returning Stoweyites, farmers or well-to-do fishermen 
for the most part. “Us'll have to climb un, for sure!'' 
“Or creep on our bellies beneath un." But Captain Bar¬ 
rington surveyed the noble tree with a tinge of regret; and 
was meanwhile conscious of the voice of the guard behind 
him addressing someone still in the coach. 

“ I shouldn't advise you to go on to Stowey to-night. 
Miss—a matter of three or four miles 'tis. Why not goo 
back wi' us as far as Tawton? If so be a^ you couldn't 
get a room to yourseK at the ‘Lion,' you'd get a bed to your¬ 
self for sure." 

The only person in the coach who could be addressed as 
“Miss" was a girl in gray already there when Captain 
Barrington had entered it at Tawton, a girl to whom his 
attention had subsequently been drawn—indifferent though 
he was to the sex—^mainly because she seemed so desirous 
of attracting none, sitting very demurely in her comer, her 
face almost invisible under the gauze veil depending from 
the front of her small poke bonnet. But he had quite 
forgotten about her again till he now heard her reply hastily, 
“No, thank you, I must go on to Stowey." 

The slight foreign accent piqued Captain Barrington's 
curiosity sufficiently to cause him to turn his head, and thus 
he got a glimpse of the speaker where she stood, above his 
level, at the top of the steps, looking down at the guard 
outside. She had put back her veil, and her face was more 
clearly revealed now—handsome, striking even, rather than 
beautiful, a little hollow in the cheeks, where burnt a some¬ 
what hectic colour, but not timid like her demeanour, not 
shrinking. And he wondered for a moment who she could 
be; just possibly a member of some French Royalist house¬ 
hold. 

“Very well. Miss," said the guard. “I daresay some 
gentleman going to Stowey will carry your valise for you, 
and, as for company, there's Mrs. Stratton as lives at 


TIGHT SHOES 169 

Stowey. SheVe started already^ if so be sheVe got past 
that old toad of a tree” 

Thank you” said the girl again, and still, as it seemed to 
He^ey, hurriedly. will not trouble anybody; my little 
valise is not heavy. And no doubt I shall overtake this 
lady.^' 

She descended, helped by the solicitous guard. Captain 
Barrington having moved away for fear of alarming her 
with proffered attentions. Better to leave her to Mrs. 
Stratton. Moreover, at this moment he happened to en¬ 
quire from a rustic standing by what steps were going to 
be taken to ensure that no chaise or horseman should collide 
with the fallen tree after dark. None, that the rustic laiew 
of. 

/^What, you are going to leave a wreck in the fairway 
without buoying it!'' exclaimed Captain Barrington indig¬ 
nantly. ''Not with my consent!" Striding off to tSe 
nearest farm, he soon returned with Farmer Cadman and 
half-a-dozen lanterns, and it was not till he had seen them 
lighted and strung on either side of the obstacle that he 
himself set off on his homeward way. 

At present on half pay and likely—for all that promotion 
had come rapidly to him—so to remain, owing to a mishap 
at sea for which he was not responsible. Captain Barrington, 
a bachelor, lived in a comfortable house by the river about 
a mile on the hither side of Stowey, looked after by an ex¬ 
cellent and commanding housekeeper and her husband, 
who had been his coxswain. For though Captain Barring¬ 
ton's spinster sister, a good eighteen years older than him¬ 
self—^he was one and forty—also dwelt near Stowey, the 
two had never joined their domestic forces, though the 
theory was that they were going to do it some day. Per¬ 
haps they secretly knew that they were at heart too dis¬ 
similar for such an arrangement ever to be successful, that 
Hervey was too "set" in his ways, and Miss Lavinia too 
free with her tongue, and too much of a quiz. But they 
were very good friends, and each had a room assigned and 
always ready for occupation in the other's house; in fact, 
Miss Lavinia was arriving this very evening at Fairhaven 
to spend a couple of days there en route to Exeter. For all 
her teasing tongue, nobody understood better than Miss 


“MR. ROWL^' 


170 

Barrington how his inactivity fretted her brother, how 
savage was the resentment at the injustice which had laid 
him aside in time of war for a blunder which was not his. 
The wound went too deep to be often handled, but it stung 
always. 

It was stinging now as Hervey Barrington walked along 
in the soft Devonshire twilight. He had the road to him¬ 
self, for the business with the tree had delayed him by quite 
twenty minutes, and all the other wayfarers were a mile or 
so ahead of him by this time. All but one, that is, for as he 
turned a comer he saw dimly, some forty yards ahead, the 
figure of a woman carrying something, and it looked like 
that of the foreign girl. She was wallong with a limp, and 
at sight of her Captain Barrington's curiosity was revived. 
Even if she were lame how had she contrived to spend so 
much time covering so little ground, to have lagged so far 
behind everyone else? Had she stayed behind on purpose? 
Well, she had already stmck him as wishing to avoid notice, 
but it was strange that at so late an hour she had not pre¬ 
ferred to avail herself of company on the road, not to speak 
of someone to carry her valise. And, despite the limp, she 
was not walking so slowly as to have been unable to keep 
up with stout Mrs. Stratton, for instance. 

At his present pace Hervey could not avoid overtaking 
her in a moment or two, and he should then feel bound to 
offer her his escort, whether she wanted it or no. It was 
not fitting for a young woman, a stranger, to be on a lonely 
road by herself at this time of day. 

Before he was up to her the foreigner had heard his foot¬ 
falls and half glanced round, quickening her pace a little. 
But in another thirty seconds he was level with her. 

“Madam," he said, raising his hat, “it is not right that 
you should carry that baggage of yours. I beg you to allow 
me to do it for you." 

The ghl did not stop. She walked on with the limp and 
said, as if she meant it: “Sir, you are very kind, but no, 
it is not necessary. The valise is truly very light." 

“But you—^you are walking with difficulty already; you 
are fatigued," observed Hervey as he kept pace with her. 
“And you still have more than a couple of miles to go. 
You really must permit me." And, respectfully but firmly. 


TIGHT SHOES 171 

he, too, possessed himself of the handle of the disputed 
object. 

The fingers which held it tightened for a moment, then 
relaxed their grip, unwillingly. You are indeed kind, Sir,^' 
miumured their owner as she relinquished her burden, but 
there was no real gratitude in her tone. She had, however, 
spoken the truth about the little portmanteau, for it was 
light—extremely light. Hervey began to wonder what 
was her destination in Stowey; he could not think of any of 
its inhabitants who were at all likely to be expecting such a 
guest. 

'‘You are visiting friends in Stowey, I expect. Madam?'' 
he said tentatively, excusing his question to himself on the 
ground that he would ultimately have to learn to what 
house he was to escort her. 

"No," replied the traveller after a moment. "I go to an 
inn, is it not?" 

"An inn!" said Hervey, still more surprised. "None of 
the inns at St 9 wey, Madam, is very suitable for a lady, 
and the ‘Dolphin', a better-class house, is closed for repairs. 
The others are only fit for sailors and such-like." 

"Sailors will not hurt me," she murmured. 

Her voice sounded dejected, or so Hervey thought. And 
she was most indubitably lame; she was hobbling. 

" I must insist on your taking my arm," he said, somewhat 
masterfully. "You will never reach Stowey at all without 
assistance." ^ 

And the girl seemed to think so too, for, after a moment, 
she took the proffered support without looking at him; 
that is to say, she leant her hand, not much more, upon it, 
and they proceeded for a little in silence. Side by side 
with her, Hervey could not see her face because of the poke 
bonnet. 

"You have already walked to-day, perhaps. Madam?" 
he suggested, as the weight on his arm gradually increased. 
"Or do you think it is possible that there is a nail, or a 
stone, in your shoe? " 

"No," said the girl rather shortly. "I fear there is no 
nail, no stone. It is not for that reason that they hurt 
me." 

"But would it not be well to make sure?" persisted Her- 


172 


‘^MR. ROWL'' 


vey, really sorry for her, since he could see that she was 
suffering. ''Or will you not at any rate sit down on this 
wall and rest a little?'" 

For the road, no longer tree-shadowed on either hand, had 
been for some minutes following the Stowey river, whose 
outgoing tide lapped along the foot of the low wall on their 
left. 

"Yes, I will sit down for a small moment. Sir," agreed the 
girl quickly, and she sank down without more ado on the 
stone parapet. 

"You are, I take it, a stranger to these parts?" observed 
Captain Barrington conversationally. 

"Yes," replied the traveller, after a moment's pause. 
"I come from York-sheer." 

"From Yorkshire!" exclaimed Hervey involimtarily. 
Surely she was not trying to pass herself off as English? 
"Ah, you mean in this moment, of course. For I perceive 

that you are-" Then he stopped; he had no wish to 

appear prying. 

But, to his regret, he saw that he had already given that 
impression; he had already caused alarm. "You mean. 
Sir," said the girl in a would-be calm voice, "that you see 
lam . . . not English. Oh, Sir—Senor—no, I am Span¬ 
ish—^but for the love of God do not betray me!" 

"But, my dear young lady," said Hervey soothingly, 
"how and to whom should I betray you? You have a 
perfect right to be Spanish, and, being Spanish, to travel 
in England. Come, now, there is no cause for agitation— 
except possibly about those shoes of yours. I will with¬ 
draw a little, and you can take them off, and see whether 
something cannot be done to ease them." 

He turned as he spoke, and, going a pace or two along the 
road, looked out over the darkening river. This was an 
odd encounter. 

"Well, now, is that better?" he asked, coming back after 
a minute or two. The shoes, however, were not yet on 
again.^ He could discern them lying in the dusty road. 
The girl was sitting with her hands in her lap. 

"When they are off it is better, yes. But I do not know 
whether-” 

"Whether you can get them on again," finished Hervey 



TIGHT SHOES 


173 


with a smile. (Why did women always have their shoes 
too tight?) If you will allow me- 

‘‘No, no!'' cried the girl, evidently affrighted, and, as far 
as he could s^, tucking up her feet under her petticoats. 
“No, Sir, I wdll contrive. . . . You see, it is not that 
they are too small''—how feminine! ladies, he laiew, always 
said that—“but that the shape, the English shape-'' 

“Ah, yes,” said Hervey. “Of course. You bought these 
in England. Perhaps that was unwise.” 

“Many things are unwise,” responded the girl on a deep, 
tragic note. “That I am here at all is imwise, but, Dios di 
mi alma, what else could I do?” She stifled an unmistak¬ 
able sob. ‘‘ But I shall soon be gone.” And, bending down, 
she struggled feverishly with her footgear. Captain Barring¬ 
ton rather uncomfortable in this sudden and unexplainS 
rush of emotion, and she evidently too much carried away 
by it to care whether or no the gentleman who had so con¬ 
siderately turned his back during the doffing of her shoes 
watched the process of resumption. 

At last she stood up. “Now I wdll go on. Sir. I am now 
better.” She hobbled a step or two, with little ejaculations 
imder her breath, and then supplemented bravely, “—if I 
do not think of them.” 

“And if you take my arm again,” suggested Hervey, 
tendering it. 

She took it, leaning a little harder this time, and said, 
as they started: “Suppose I take altogether off my shoes, 
and go without them? As go the peasants in my coun¬ 
try.” 

“No, Madam, you could not possibly do that,” replied 
Hervey. “This road is much too stony.” They went on 
a little in silence, till he, having revolved the idea for a mo¬ 
ment or two already, continued: “I have a better plan. 
My owm house is now only half a mile distant, for I live well 
this side of Stowey. Now, if you would allow me to offer 
you hospitality for the night-” 

“Senor!” exclaimed the Spanish girl, evidently deeply 
affronted. Her hand stiffened on his arm. 

“I assure you. Madam,” said Hervey hastily, “that my 
housekeeper—my name, by the way, is Barrington, Captain 
Hervey Barrington of His Majesty's Navy-” 


174 ^^MR. ROWL’’ 

But at that the hand was withdrawn altogether. They 
both stopped. 

“My sister, too,” began Captain Barrington anew, “will 
be-” 

“Ah, your sister lives with you,” interpolated the un- 
kno^, and, the hand returning, they took up their march 
again. Hervey did not think it worth while to explain, 
but enlarged a little on the pleasure it would give Miss Bar¬ 
rington to receive the footsore traveller and (though he did 
not say this) to tease him afterward for his knight-errantry. 

“So you will accept, will you not, Madam? I assure 
you,” he proceeded with a certain stiffness, “that I regard 
you with all the respect due to a member of your sex, and 
particularly to one who is, for the moment at least, unpro-, 
tected. In order to prove, indeed, that I desire in no way 
to take advantage of you, I will cause my sister to come 
down to the garden, if you wish, and there make you known 
to each other, so that you can satisfy yourself of my inten¬ 
tions. For indeed you will never reach Stowey to-night, 
nor, as I say, is there any inn there quite suitable to your 
requirements.” , 

The Spanish girl stood still once more. She clasped both 
hands to her breast and looked away over the river. Her¬ 
vey had an uncomfortable suspicion that she was imploring 
the Virgin for guidance—^really quite unnecessarily. When 
she spoke, the words were charged with feeling. 

“Indeed you are too kind to an unfortunate. Unpro¬ 
tected—ikfodre di Dios ! it is not for the moment only that 
I am unprotected. Shall I tell you my poor little story, 
Senor Capitan?” 

“There is no need imless you wish,” replied Hervey 
gently. (But he was curious all the same.) 

But yes, if you are so noble as to receive me under your 
roof I must tell you. In a few words. Again I will sit on 
this kind wall.” She did so, and stooping, tugged off the 
shoes which were not too tight. “Senor, I am the wife— 
the deserted wife—of an Englishman like yourself, an Eng¬ 
lish officer.” 

“Is it possible?” said Hervey, gravely astonished. He 
sat down on the wall beside her. “How did he desert you 
—where did you meet? ” 


TIGHT SHOES 


175 


The Spaniard made a gesture. '‘You ask where? Ah, 
Senor, in a terrible place—^in Badajoz, in the storm of 
Badajoz.’' 

“Good God!’' exclaimed Captain Barrington. “You 
were in Badajoz when we took it last year!” 

“With my poor father, yes. He was killed. Me the 
soldiers were dragging away—your soldiers . . . they 

were enraged at the resistance of the French . . . me, 
a Spaniard, your friend . . . when he saw me. Senor, 
he saved me ... he loved me ... he married 
me—^that is to say ” 

“Yes, I understand,” murmured Hervey rather awk¬ 
wardly. 

She made another gesture. “But no, Senor, I think you 
do not! It is true that I was not married by the rites of my 
own Church, but of his, for I am married by the priest, the 
—what do you call him in your tongue?—the capellan of 
his regiment.” 

“The chaplain. And what was his regiment?” 

The girl hesitated. “The English names are so diffi¬ 
cult,” she said deprecatingly. 

“Try!” said Hervey. 

She addressed herself visibly to an effort. “Mi marido 
—he was in what you call—the Light Brigade.” 

“Ah, yes. But what regiment? A brigade is not a regi¬ 
ment.” 

“Not?” queried the soldier’s wife innocently. 

“Was it the Rifle Regiment—the Ninety-fifth?” 

“Yes, that is the name.” She resumed feverishly. “We 
live in Badajoz a little ... oh, how I am happy! 
But he will not take me with him on campaign; he leave me 
there. For a time he write to me. I find out always where 
he is. Then he writes no more. I think he is dead. I 
write to the Coronel; no, Tomas is not dead, he is gone to 
England; he is sick. And to me not a word! I wait. No 
letter . . . how to tell you the pain I suffer! At last 
... I have a little money, I sell my jewels, I go on board 
a vessel, I come in England. I travel to the home of my 
husband. Senor, he denies me! He says. No, I was never 
married to him—I was only a poor girl to amuse him! 
Vaya ! I am to go back to Spain—he is finished with me!” 


176 ‘^MR. ROWL^' 

''What is the scoundreFs name?” demanded Hervey in¬ 
dignantly. 

"Ah, no, I shall not tell you that!” She flung out her 
arms to the night. "Though I never see him again, though 
he treat me so cruelly, I love him—in Badajoz!” 

"I see,” said Hervey rather drily, the more so that the 
passion of the last words had caused an uncomfortable sort 
of thrill to pass along his spine. "But, Senora, you are 
in all probability really married to this man. In fact, I 
do not see how else it could be if the chaplain of the Rifle 
Regiment. ... It would be perfectly easy to ascer¬ 
tain.” 

At that the abandoned wife clutched his arm—^but not 
to welcome the suggestion. '^No, no! If he cast me off 
it is finished. No, I go back to Spain. I leave him free.” 

'But, dash it all!” cried Captain Barrington, wishing 
that she would liberate him at all events, "the man himself, 
scamp that he is, wonT be free—if by free you mean free 
to marry someone else. If you are his legal wife, as I feel 
sure you must be, you are still his wife whether you return 
to Spam or stay in England. And by the way,” he added, 
how were you proposing to return to Spain?” 

The ecstasy of self-sacrifice appeared to have died down 
as suddenly as it had arisen, and, having already (to his 
relief) relinquished his arm, the deserted lady said, with a 
sublime disregard of bathos, "Now I put onmy shoes again,” 
and did so. It was not until she was on her feet, and had 
once more accepted her escort^s arm, that she answered his 
question '^To return to Spain I will find a little ship at 
Stow-ee. 

,, ''Indeed you will not!” returned Hervey rather sharply, 
^^o told you such a thing?” 

"No little ship for Spain at Stow-ee! Ay di mi!” la¬ 
mented the fair traveller. "Then I come all this painful 
way for nothing. Alas, how I am unfortunate!” 

“We must consider your plans in the morning,” said 
Hervey hastily, apprehending tears. "I can no doubt be 
of some assistance. But, if you will pardon the enquiry, 
how did you come to England in the first place? At what 
port did you land?” 

"I have forgotten its name,” replied the girl. Then, 


TIGHT SHOES 


177 


quickly taking herself up ('H knew she was lying,” thought 
Hervey, pleased at his perspicacity) she said, “No, no, I 
now remember. At a place called Gos-port.” 

“Gosport! Then you came in a troopship!” 

“Was that so wrong, Senor Capitan? I came as best 
I could. The passage was offered me ... I paid 
nothing.” Very oddly, there seemed to be a suggestion of 
laughter in her voice now—or was it tears fought back? 
The next moment she stumbled and gave a little cry, hang¬ 
ing heavy on his arm for a second. “A stone . . . no, 
Senor, it is nothing. I can go on. It is perhaps not much 
farther now? ” 

“No, fortunately. But I am afraid that this walk has 
meant a good deal of suffering for you.” 

“No, no,” she murmured, “for I have found a friend so 

kind, so sympathetic!-” And for the first time the 

other hand joined its fellow on his arm, and both gave that 
support an unmistakable pressure. 

Now Hervey Barrington had not the slightest desire to 
receive from this emotional Spanish female any evidence of 
her warm southern heart in return for his hospitality. Yet, 
as he could not withdraw his arm, the only measure he could 
take against such a risk was to change the conversation. 

“When I was in Spain-” he began—and had quite a 

gratifying success. The joint pressure on his arm relaxed, 
and the second hand went away again. 

“Ah, you have been in Spain,” observed its owner 
slowly, and almost as if the information were not to her 
taste. 

“Yes, just before the war,” answered Hervey. “I trav¬ 
elled with a Spanish friend in Catalonia and Valencia.” 

“ I do not Imow those parts,” said his companion hastily, 
as if she were rebutting an accusation; and for the rest of 
the way became rather silent, except for an occasional tired 
sigh. Captain Barrington was glad when he could at last 
announce, as a house loomed up by the side of the road, 
between them and the river: “Here we are at our destina¬ 
tion.” 



CHAPTER II 

DEPARTURE OF THE SEI?ORA TOMAS 

^ ^ princess, but an unhappy stranger who intended soon 

to have left this country.”— Rasselas, chap, xxxviii. 

Though on one side Fairhaven, a house of moderate size, 
bordered directly on the road, a garden stretching to the 
river surrounded it on all the others, and it was into this 
g^den, by a side gate, that Hervey, in his anxiety to show 
himself no Lothario, now conducted his guest. In the mid¬ 
dle of the lawn was a fine old mulberry tree, and under the 
mulberry a garden seat constructed out of the timbers of 
the Halcyon sloop of war, which had been Lieutenant 
Barrington's first command. Upon this relic Hervey in- 
■\dted the Spanish traveller to sit, while he summoned his 
sister. ‘'Like putting her in quarantine," he thought, as 
he entered the house from the garden and ran upstairs. 

A minute later he was down again in the spacious hall 
calling “Mrs. Jeremy! Mrs. Jeremy!" and then, receiving 
no answer, ringing a bell. 

It was impossible to be more immaculate, more spotlessly 
and stiffly becapped, more suitably clad in a high-bosomed 
gray gingham that showed her ample but shapely contours, 
than Mrs. Hannah Jeremy, to enter with more of the air 
of the all-competent but respectful housekeeper, or to drop 
a slight curtsey of more dignity. 

“Did you ring. Sir?" 

“I did. Where is Miss Barrington?" 

“She has not come yet. Sir." 

^ “Not come!" ejaculated her master with more stupefac¬ 
tion than the news seemed, on the surface, to warrant. 

“No, Sir." 

^ Hervey's thoughts went to the garden seat. With no 
sister forthcoming, as promised, the girl would think he had 
178 


DEPARTURE OF THE SENORA TOMAS 179 

been lying ... as indeed he had been, tacitly, when he 
allowed her to suppose that Lavinia lived with him. It 
would look as if he had deliberately entrapped the stranger. 
‘'You donT think, surely, Mrs. Jeremy,'' he said in dismay, 
“that Miss Barrington has changed her mind, and is not 
coming to-night at all?" 

“I couldn't say. Sir. We have heard nothing. But it 
is getting late. I have had to put supper back, for if you'll 
excuse the liberty. Sir, you are late yourself." 

“Yes, I know that," responded Hervey, his brain busy. 
“There was an accident—the road blocked by a tree—and 
I had to walk from Cadman's Comer." Of course, there 
was always Mrs. Jeremy in the house to play propriety; 
what he disliked was having to confess to what must look 
like calculated duplicity. As he stood silent, his^ hand at 
his chin, wondering how he could get out of this admis¬ 
sion, Mrs. Jeremy observed in a voice noticeably prim and 
frigid: 

“ I don't know whether you would wish me to acquaint 
you with it. Sir, but there's a very awkward thing occurred. 
How long she's been there there's no telling, having only 
just seen her myself, but there's a female—^and seemingly a 
young female—sitting in the garden. Sir . . . and at 
this hour, too!" 

Hervey made a gesture which appeared to signify that as 
many females as pleased might sit in his garden all night. 
Actually it meant that there was no need to tell him of a 
fact which he knew already, but Mrs. Jeremy did not thus 
interpret it, and she proceeded: 

“How she come there I can't conceive, nor what she's 
doing, sitting there on the Halcyoon as bold as brass—I 
might almost say lying there, saving your presence, Sir, for 
she's put her feet up off of the ground 1" Had Mrs. Jeremy 
announced that the stranger had removed the major part 
of her clothing her voice could hardly have held more repro¬ 
bation. “I wish I had told Jeremy to keep an eye on her 
from the pantry window." 

“It is not necessary," said Hervey, groaning inwardly^ 
Hang Lavinia and her impunctuality! But he was master 
in his own house (if sometimes at the cost of effort) and he^ 
faced Mrs. Jeremy boldly. 


180 


“MR. ROWL” 


“The young lady in the garden, Mrs. Jeremy, was left 
there by me. She is an imfortunate Spanish girl who has 
been deserted by her husband, an English officer. She 
was walking into Stowey, like myself, from Cadman's Cor¬ 
ner; she is lame from—from fatigue and too tired to go any 
farther; so, counting on Miss Barrington's presence here, I 
offered her hospitality for the night." (Here Mrs. Jeremy 
permitted herself an inarticulate exclamation.) “Now— 
I don't know what I'm to do! If Miss Barrin^on doesn't 
come at all I suppose I must hand the poor girl entirely 
into your charge—that is to say, if she will now consent to 
stay here." 

“I think you will find. Sir," responded Mrs. Jeremy with 
unusual tartness, “that the young person—Spanish, you 
say?—^won't raise any difficulties about sleeping in a gentle¬ 
man's house, whether there's another lady there or no! 
It's my belief she'll be only too pleased if there's none!" 

“Nonsense, Mrs. Jeremy!" said Hervey sharply. “You 
know nothing whatever about the girl. She only consented 
to come when she heard of the existence of my sister. 
I don't know what excuse I am to make to her for Miss 
Barrington's absence. You will have to come out into the 
garden with me, so as to show that there is at least a respect¬ 
able woman at Fairhaven." 

“Much obliged. Sir," said Mrs. Jeremy, with a move¬ 
ment of the head which approached perilously near a toss. 
“As I said before, being Spanish” (impossible to reproduce 
what Mrs. Jeremy put into this word) “she'll likely come in 
the more readily if she don't see a respectable woman, she 
sitting there as if the garden belonged to her already!" 

Hervey was now really angry. “Mrs. Jeremy," he said 
sternly, “you are forgetting yourself. You ought to be 
ashamed of such insinuations! Now listen. When I have 
persuaded this poor girl that she need fear nothing imder 
my roof, you will get the spare bedroom ready for her at 
once; and I think that as she is tired, and I am . . . 

alone . . . the best thing will be for her to have some 

supper taken to her up there before she retires. Do you 
understand?" 

“You really mean her to sleep the night in this house. 
Sir?" 


DEPARTURE OF THE SENORA TOMAS 181 

‘‘Did you not hear the orders I have just given you, Mrs. 
Jeremy?'' enquired Hervey, very quietly, but with an un¬ 
mistakable quarterdeck inflection. 

“ I beg your pardon. Sir," said his housekeeper, quelled 
and flushing slightly. “And you wish me to come out with 
you now to see the young per-lady?" 

“Yes. That is to say, come out on some pretext in a 
minute or two, after I have explained the situation to her. 
You can ask me, for instance, at what time I would like 
supper." 

^^en he got into the garden again Hervey realized with 
quite a shock how dark it had grown, and the oddity of 
leaving a guest —a lady—to sit outside in the more than 
dusk. Still, it had been done entirely for her own sake, and 
fortunately this was a warm evening, an evening full of 
the scents of the flowers in the little garden, and of the 
murmur of the outgoing river. 

A bat was wheeling over the relic of the Halcyon^ but the 
seat, to Hervey's surprise, was empty. Had the Spaniard 
taken fright and departed? He searched the gloom and, 
descrying a shape by the steps which went down to the 
river, hurried towards it. The Senora was sitting on the low 
wall. 

“This river must be beautiful, if one could see, Senor 
Capitan," she observed, as he came up to her. “You have 
steps here—a boat, I perceive!" 

“Yes," said Captain Barrington, for he did keep the skiff 
of his small sailing cutter moored at the foot of the steps, 
but in the gloom it was quite impossible to see it from where 
the lady sat, and it struck him that curiosity must have led 
her down the steps to investigate. But he had not come to 
talk about his surroundings or possessions. 

“Madam," he began uncomfortably, “I must present 
my deep apologies. I ought to have made myself clearer 
on the road just now. My sister does not live with me, she 
visits me from time to time; and, though she should be here 
to-night, the fact remains that she has not yet arrived." 

In the silence that ensued, this speech sounded to its 
maker most unconvincing. And the Spanish girl gave a 
quick sigh. It was too dark to see her expression; but she 
surely was not contemplating going on to Stowey after all. 


182 


MR. ROWL” 


disabled as she was? He would reason with her, plead with 
her, before he allowed her to do that. 

But after a moment she spoke. '^Senor Capitan,'' she 
said in a low voice, ''it is not possible for me to walk farther, 
even though the Senora your sister do not arrive this night. 
So ... I throw myself upon your chival-ree.^' 

So long as she did not throw herself upon his breast Her- 
vey was quite content with this acceptance—though it was 
a good deal readier than he had anticipated. He was even 
rather touched by its simple dignity. But then, in the 
semi-darkness, as he stood before her, he felt his hand seized 
in both of hers, and, before he knew what she was about, 
she had sealed her committal to his honour by carrying it 
towards her lips. Halfway she suddenly seemed to think 
better of it, and Hervey, intensely disliking the prospect 
of having his hand kissed by a woman, deduced with 
gratitude that he was spared this supreme embarrassment 
owing to the opportune arrival of Mrs. Jeremy, with the 
prearranged query, made in her best style, "At what hour 
would you wish supper to be served. Sir?'' 

Mrs. Jeremy disappearing the instant they were in the 
house, Captain Barrington himself was the only person 
available to show the girl to her room, which, doubting in 
any case if it were yet ready to receive her, he had no inten¬ 
tion of doing. He therefore suggested that she should re¬ 
move her bonnet in the hall, if she would forgive the lack of 
ceremony. She assured him in her pretty broken English 
that there was no need to apologize for the so handsome 
apartment, but she did not hasten to comply, and sat down 
as she was, with her dangling veil, in an armchair near the 
hearth, placing her feet, in the purgatorial shoes, upon the 
overblown bead roses of a convenient footstool. She did, 
however, loosen her cloak, and presently it slipped alto¬ 
gether from her shoulders. Hervey had thought to see 
her face more clearly in the glow of the candles which Mrs. 
Jeremy had already lit, but, between the height of the 
sconces, and the poke of the bonnet, there was as much 
shadow upon it as illumination. He did discern, however, 
that she was high-coloured for a Spaniard, and not so very 
dark, after all . . . yet not of the fair Spanish type. 


DEPARTURE OF THE SENORA TOMAS 183 

either. Perhaps she had a mixture of some other national- 
ity. 

One might be able to tell that from the way she spoke her 
native tongue. Speaking Spanish very fairly himself, and 
with a good accent, Hervey wondered now why he had not 
addressed her in that language before. Probably because 
her English was so adequate. Well, better late than never. 

“I am afraid that you must be exceedingly tired, and 
hungry also, Senora,'’ he observed in his best Castilian. 
“ I assure you that I greatly regret this delay in offering you 
rest and refreshment.” 

He saw her colour spread. She was surprised, not un¬ 
naturally, at his tardy revelation of his accomplishment. 
She answered him, however, not in her own tongue but in 
his. 

“Ah, you speak Spanish, Senor! My congratulations!” 

“Allow me to return them,” said Hervey, this time in 
his own language. “ It is remarkable for a Spanish lady to 
speak English.” (“And to cling to it so persistently, too,” 
he thought to himself.) 

The Senora flushed again and moved in her chair. “You 
are very kind. Yes, I speak it so much with Tomas . . . 

and now in your country . . . that I have almost for¬ 

gotten my own language.” 

But, reflected Hervey, she and her Tomas cannot possibly 
have spent long enough together for her to acquire such a 
mastery of English. She must have known it before. . . 

And an imaccountable desire to hear her talking Spanish 
persisting in him, and his own command of the Lusitanian 
tongue reviving more quickly than he expected, he went on 
to ask her in that speech what she proposed to do about re¬ 
turning to Spain, since he could assure her that it was not 
feasible to voyage thither from Stowey. And who had so 
misdirected her as to inform her that it was? 

The questions seemed oddly to confuse the Senora Tomas. 
The colour which had risen disappeared—except on her 
cheeks, where it did not vary. 

“I pray you not to talk Spanish to me,” she said in an 
uncertain voice, looking away. “It is cruel. It reminds 
me ... of too many things. . ..” 

And then an extraordinary, a stunning conviction broke 


184 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


upon Hervey Barrington. He leant forward and fixed his 
guest with a steady gaze. 

“You ask that because you do not understand what I 
say! You cannot reply in your own language—you are not 
a Spaniard at all!’' 

The bonnet trembled for a moment. Then its occupant 
returned his searching, condemnatory look in silence, with 
an effect of measuring him in her turn; after which, with a 
gesture of abandonment, she put her hands before her face 
and bowed her head. Her thin shoulders heaved a little, 
and there was a sound like stifled crying, but not much. 

Hervey had risen. “Well, Madam?” he enquired 
stonily after a moment. 

A further silence, and his guest raised her head. 

“It is true,” she said quite quietly. “I have lied to 
you. I am not Spanish. I am hYench.” 

“You have lied to me—you acknowledge it!” repeated 
Hervey between his teeth. ^ “All that stoiy about Badajoz, 
that——” He clenched his hands, restraining his language 
with difficulty, remembering that, in spite of everything, she 
was a woman. “All that was lies, then?’’ 

“Yes,” she said, still in that very quiet, emotionless 
voice. ^ “I wish I had not . . had to lie. I did not 

like doing it . . . and I might have known one does 
not deceive a man like you.” 

“Did not like doing it!” repeated Hervey wrathfully, as 
certain episodes of the deception came back to him. “You 
enjoyed it, you-” Once again he checked himself. 

But she looked up at him with a sad, limpid gaze. “No 
woman as heartsick as I am. Captain Barrington, could 
enjoy anything at this hour,” she returned sorrowfully, 
“and no woman with a heart at all could enjoy deceiving 
an honourable and generous man.” 

“We will have a truce to compliments, if you please,” 
said Hervey grimly. “Instead you will give me an ex¬ 
planation, less of your being French, than of why you passed 
yourself off for Spanish—I imagine, though, that I must now 
prepare myself for another cock-and-bull story. I suppose 
that you will tell me next that you are a French Royalist 
an imigree?’' ’ 

^ The girl shook her head with a faint smile. “That 


DEPARTURE OF THE SENORA TOMAS 185 

would indeed be more convenient for me. But this time 
I will tell you the truth. Ah, I wish I had done it before!'* 

The complete change in her manner, her hopeless tone, 
her utter abandonment of feminine wiles, the very way she 
sat surrendered in the big chair began to have some effect 
on Hervey. He felt it and removed himself farther off. 
“Why did you not, then?" 

“Because I was afraid. I thought that to acknowledge 
myself French—an enemy—was too dangerous. I fancied 
I could pass myself off as Spanish. But I only know a 
word or two of the language. And the story I told you 
. . . Ah, do not be angry. Monsieur! I must have some 
story to account for my presence in England!" 

“I must congratulate you on the one you served up to 
me," observed Hervey sardonically. “Your talents are 
wasted in private life. But perhaps you are an actress, in 
your own country?" 

Looking down, she shook her ringlets. “No, Monsieur. 
I live very quietly in the provinces, with my parents. But 
I have deserved that you should reproach me. I have been 
very foolish ... I think my best justification is to 
tell you my real story . . . if you will listen to it now?" 

“I will listen." 

“You are generous indeed. Captain Barrington." She 
paused a moment; then, as it were, drew herself together. 

“My name is Adrienne des-" But here, at the outset, 

she checked herself, and looked across at him reflectively. 
“No, perhaps I will not tell you that. But everything 
else I will tell you. ... I had. Monsieur, a brother, 
fighting in Spain—^fighting against the English, yes, but 
fighting like a gentleman, for I think all your soldiers have 
said that of us. Besides"—her head lifted itself a trifle— 
“he is a gentleman. But he was captured and brought to 
England, and made a prisoner on parole. And then. 
Monsieur, an atrocious thing happened, for some intri^e 
against him led to his being accused, unjustly, of having 
broken his parole, and he was sent to prison. He tried to 
escape from the prison—was that unnatural, Monsieur?— 
and for that he was sent to the pontons —^the^ hulks.” Her¬ 
vey, who was watching her rather surreptitiously, saw her 
bite her lips at that ill-omened word, and put her hand- 


186 


‘^MR. ROWL^^ 


kerchief to them for a moment. ‘^You know what that 
means, Monsieur . . . and he was an officer! 

*‘Yes. Go on,'^ said Hervey. At the back of his mind 
he was conscious of how much better she spoke English now 
that she had renoimced her Spanish nationality. Curious. 

‘^Monsieur, he is my only brother—^my twin brother. 
My parents are old and tant soit 'peu royalistes. When 
Raoul and I were children we lived for that reason in Eng¬ 
land; in short, we were emigres in those days, so I mig& 
well have called myself an emigree just now but that I 
have done with deception.'' C'Ah, that," thought Her¬ 
vey, “explains the excellent English; then she must have 
been mangling it on purpose just now!") ''Eh hien, I said 
to myself, some of the friends of my childhood may be 
alive still, in London, and if only I could find them they 
would help me; they would remember Raoul, they would do 
something to right this horrible injustice. So, I came to 
England." Seeing Hervey about to interrupt, she held up a 
hand. “Monsieur, you, a sailor, know that it can be done 
—^but I do not wish to implicate any one by telling you 
how." 

“Yes, very well, " said Hervey, interested despite him¬ 
self, and not least of all by the different manner in which 
this girl told a true tale. “I accept that. Go on. Made¬ 
moiselle." 

“In London I cannot find these old friends; they are re¬ 
moved or dead. I have no one to help me. I cannot go to 
any man and ask for help. Although I was playing a part 
this evening you will acknowledge, I hope. Monsieur, that I 
did not solicit your assistance; au contraire, I tried to escape 
notice." 

“Quite true." 

“All that I can permit myself to do then is to go to the 
Transport Office in Dorset Square and to make enquiries 
about my unhappy brother. They look up registers and the 
like, and they tell me he is at Plymouth, in the prison ship the 
Queen. They give me no hope of his release, but they say I 
may go and see him. At least that is something. I take 
the coach to Plymouth; I go in a boat to those. . . 

Her voice broke suddenly, and she clenched her hands to¬ 
gether. 


DEPARTURE OF THE SENORA TOMAS 187 

‘"Yes?” said Hervey gently. No place for a woman; 
what had she seen? 

With an effort Adrienne went on. It is a deception —a 
mistake. Raoul is not there . . . was never there . . 

''But if the Transport Board-began Hervey. 

" Oh, Monsieur, they have so many names of unfortunates 
on those registers. . . . And I saw some of them . . . 

men like the dead! They tell me, the officers of the Queen, 
that it must be a mistake for the Queen Caroline at Ports¬ 
mouth; that my poor brother must be there. And so I am 
going back, and I pray God that I find him at Portsmouth, 
even in one of those terrible ships, because—^because- 

"Because what. Mademoiselle?'' asked Hervey, and he 
came and stood by her. 

For one moment the dark-ringed eyes, heavy with sorrow 
and fatigue, looked up at him. "Because I have the 
thought that he may be dead, and that they would not tdll 
me!" And with that her self-command gave way entirely, 
and, burying her face once more in her hands, she sobbed 
helplessly. 

Hervey Barrington was far from being a hard-hearted 
man. Before this grief and these immistakable accents 
of sincerity he ceased to resent the fact that an hour ago 
this girl had been fooling him with a pathetic fiction, more 
especially because the present narrator did not seem the 
same person at all as that pseudo-Spanish minx. What a 
pity she had ever tried that game; it was so imnecessary. 
No man with a grain of feeling could have stayed her, 
or done anything to her, technical enemy though she were, 
on learning of her errand. And the poor creature had 
actually visited those unpleasant places ... in vain. 

Meanwhile she sobbed on and on, while he tried to offer 
suggestions about Portsmouth, and about what he could do 
himself in the way of enquiries. But she still had her face 
hidden, and he was almost bending over her when Mrs. 
Jeremy reappeared to say that the bedroom was ready, and 
that she had set supper for the lady there. 

In the presence of a domestic. Mile. Adrienne made a 
more determined effort to pull herself together. She dried 
her eyes and stood up. 

" I will wish you the best boon I can, a good night's rest,” 



188 


‘‘MR. ROWL^' 


said Hervey kindly. “In the morning we will talk about 
what is to be done. Meanwhile'^—^he sank his voice, 
though Mrs. Jeremy was waiting a considerable distance 
away, at the foot of the stairs —“meanwhile try to forget 
Plymouth and what you saw there.^' 

The shadow in the French girl's eyes deepened. 

“I can never do that," she responded gravely, “not in all 
my life. But I thank you, for myself and for my brother 
Raoul, too—if he lives. I would kiss your hand. Captain 
Barrin^on, but I know that you would not like it." The 
half smile that came with this, like a gleam of sun after rain, 
suggested that when she was not tired and overwrought 
she had a very sweet one. 

“Mademoiselle," said Hervey, “I think it should be the 
other way about." And on an impulse, regardless of the 
presence of Mrs. Jeremy, he took her hand and raised it for a 
moment to his lips. “ Good-night." 


CHAPTER III 

DEPARTURE OF HER SUCCESSOR 

“ I was weary, and hoped to find in sleep that remission of distress 
which Nature seldom denies.”— Rasselas, chap, xxxviii. 

The room on the third floor to which Mrs. Jeremy preceded 
Mile, des Sabli^res was large and comfortable. It had 
two windows, now discreetly curtained, looking out on to 
the road. Mrs. Jeremy was large, too—that she could 
not alter—^and she was usually very comfortable also . . . 
but not now. 

"'This is your room. Miss—Madam, no doubt I should 
say,” she announced with extreme frigidity. "The bed is 
well aired. Your supper is on that little table; soup Fve 
given you, and a cold chicken wing, knowing as young 
ladies have not much appetite, particularly when fatigued 
after a journey/rom heaven knows where! And here is your 
—^baggage. Miss; that, I understand, is all you have. And 
now if youfll excuse me I must go and see to the roast for 
the Captain. I wish you a good night. Miss.” She with¬ 
drew, and the temperature sensibly rose. 

Mile, des Sablieres, who had looked at her mutely during 
the delivery of this speech, raised her eyes to heaven as the 
door closed. ''Mon Dieu!” It was all she said; she 
proceeded with no loss of time to action, always so much 
more important than speech. The first thing she did was to 
sit down on the nearest chair, pull off her shoes and fling 
them petulantly and with a look of hatred one after the 
other across the room; the second, to hobble to the door 
and lock it; the third, to draw up a chair to the table, take 
the cover off the bowl of soup, and, without waiting to spread 
a napkin, drink off about half its contents in one draught. 
Midway she set it down and surveyed the rest of the collation 
with a gradually falling face: the wing of cold chicken, the 
189 


190 


“MR. ROWL'^ 


slice of bread, the small pat of butter, the remnant of apple 
tart and the tiny jug of cream, all very daintily set out upon 
a tray; after which, taking a spoon, she consumed the rest of 
the soup slowly by means of that implement. ^ She then 
drank a glass of wine with a good deal more obvious gusto 
than the less appreciative sex usually exhibits (but then 
she was alone), sighed, looked fondly at the wing of chicken, 
and began upon it with a forced deliberation. . . . 

Even so, in eight minutes there was nothing whatever left of 
the elegant little supper save the chicken bones, as bare 
as if a colony of ants had been at work on them, and one 
glass of wine, with which Mile, des Sablieres, leaning back in 
her chair with her stockinged feet stretched out straight in 
front of her, then proceeded to conclude the not very sub¬ 
stantial meal. 

After holding the empty glass for a moment or two in her 
fingers, and looking at it regretfully, she put it doym with a 
sigh, and, taking up the tray, considerately put it outside 
the door, relocked the latter and then, candle in hand, made 
a careful tour of the walls of the apartment. The only 
other door was a small one covered with wall-paper, of the 
kind that commonly leads into a cupboard or powdering 
closet, and this one did no more, as the explorer satisfied 
herself. She returned, therefore, and began to take off her 
dress—presumably a new one, since her fingers seemed 
unused to the fastenings, and it was some time before she 
stepped out of it, in her white underdress. Evidently, too, 
she regarded it with the reverence due to a new gown, for 
she spread it out, with what seemed exaggerated care for 
so simple a confection, over the back of a chair. After this 
she removed, with the same precision, an object of which 
some ladies, it is known, do divest themselves upon retiring, 
but these, as a rule, of an age more advanced than Mile, 
des Sablieres. 

The removal of the high-piled ringlets, thus laid en masse 
on the table, revealed her own short hair, of approximately 
the same dark-brown colour. ^ She next unlocked the fa¬ 
mous valise, took from it an instrument which she laid by 
the wig, went over to the washstand and vigorously washed 
her face, and then, returning with a hand-mirror from the 
dressing-table, scrutinized the result by the candles, feeling 


DEPARTURE OF HER SUCCESSOR 


191 


her chin and upper lip critically. Her ablutions had had a 
somewhat singular effect upon her complexion, for the 
mirror showed all her brilliant colour gone. 

Suddenly the fair traveller put down the glass and 
yawned violently, stretching her arms to their fullest ex¬ 
tent, and causing an ominous cracking sound in the bosom of 
her tight-fitting underdress. A look of alarm crossed her 
face, and, using an expression of a kind with which a gently 
nurtured girl should not be familiar, she slowly unfastened 
the underdress also, and let it slide to the ground. And 
with that there was nothing of Mile, des Sablieres left . . . 
only a very near relation of hers, slim to leanness in shirt, 
thin breeches, and stockings, with a lock of damp hair cling¬ 
ing to his forehead and a face which, now that the paint 
was gone, showed its true hollowness under the cheekbones 
and round the jaw—the face, too, of one tired to death, 
though at the moment it wore a faint and transitory amuse¬ 
ment as its owner looked down at the circle of white lying 
around his feet. 

That dress, the money in his pockets, his presence here as 
a practically free man, Raoul owed in the first instance 
entirely to Juliana Forrest. She had got him out of the 
hulks, as she had vowed she would—employing for the 
purpose one Greedy, who combined in Plymouth the occupa¬ 
tions of ship chandler and escape agent. Had Raoul real¬ 
ized earlier how deeply she was implicating herself in what 
now ranked as a felony, he might have hesitated to accept 
his freedom, but the truth was that, though for two months 
he received letters from her by the ordinary channels, ad¬ 
juring him to keep up his spirits and assuring him that he 
was not forgotten, he supposed her, in the absence of any 
hints to the contrary, to be continuing her campaign by 
legitimate methods. Then, yesterday morning, as he was 
taking his turn, in heavy rain, at hauling up the casks of 
fresh water from the boat which daily brought theiri from 
the shore, one of her crew whispered something in his ear. 
There was no time to question or to argue; only, in the 
downpour which no doubt had something to do with the 
relaxed vigilance of the sentries, to^ slip as directed into one 
of the empty casks lying on its side in the barge. But 
not until he was safely in the cellar under Greedy’s shop 


192 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


did he, still bewildered, discover that that individual had 
been for two months in Miss Forrest’s pay awaiting this 
chance. ... It was too late then to refuse the gift; 
the best way of showing his gratitude was to use it, and get 
himself as speedily as he could, by means of Creedy’s 
directions and her money, to Start Bay, where the smugglers 
would run him over to France. 

Raoul stepped out of the underdress and folded it neatly 
up. Well, here he was, on his second night of freedom, im- 
der the roof of an English naval officer, of all men in the 
world, and though in the first instance only the more 
than discomfort of those damned shoes had driven him to 
accept this hospitality when it was pressed upon him, he 
had not been slow to realize that, if he had been tracked as 
far as Stowey, this was probably the last house where the 
authorities would ever dream of searching for him. He 
was really very glad that he had not to run the gauntlet of 
the unknown Miss Barrington’s eyes to-night; Captain 
Barrington, indeed, had evidently no suspicion of his sex 
—really it was almost a shame to have taken such advan¬ 
tage of his good-nature—^but “Adrienne’s” possibly over¬ 
rouged appearance had not seemed to find favour with 
the housekeeper. Greedy, who at Miss Forrest’s suggestion 
had fitted him out in woman’s attire, had also provided him 
with the means of touching up his pallor and thinness into 
something more femininely presentable; and it was when 
Raoul, thus embellished, had beheld himself in Mr. Creedy’s 
looking-glass that the likeness to Adrienne had suggested to 
him the whimsical idea of impersonating her—an idea which 
he subsequently discarded for exactly the reason he had 
given Captain Barrington, that to avow oneself French was 
too hazardous. . . . Even in the wearing of a petticoat 
elsewhere than at private theatricals there were risks which 
he had not anticipated; before ever he had got clear of 
Plymouth a half-drunken sailor had tried—tried very hard 
—to kiss him. . . . This sailor to-night, thank the 
saints, had shown no signs of that desire, and heaven send 
it never visited him, for the most discreet embrace could 
hardly fail to lead to discovery, even though the gray gown 
had been carefully padded to simulate a roundness which 
Raoul’s own person w^ very far from possessing. 


193 


DEPARTURE OF HER SUCCESSOR 

Still, he must have made rather a convincing girl to have 
scored such a histrionic triumph as to impose his second 
story on his host immediately after the discovery of the 
falsity of the first. But it had not been difficult to throw 
the accents of sincerity into the account of what, after all, 
was only too sadly true—his o^ case. Yet he saw now 
that he had let himself be a trifle too much carried away 
over the business of the deserted Spanish wife. He must 
guard, in future, against allowing the humour of a situation 
to take hold of him like that. Heaven knew that there 
was little enough to laugh at in his own . . . though of 
course to masquerade as his own sister had its amusing 
side. . . . 

Sleep, the sleep of profound fatigue of mind and body, 
was pressing on him now like a feather-bed. It was almost 
shameful to be so tired with so little cause, but the horrible 
existence of the last two months had sapped his strength 
xmbelievably, and the long duel with Captain Barrington 
had been a great strain. He dragged himself to the table 
and took up the razor. No; he dared not shave when he 
was so weary, for he might cut himself, which in the cir¬ 
cumstances would be suspicious. He would do it early in 
the morning; he never had a stiff growth. ... He 
lurched to the bed, and sitting down upon it, began to un¬ 
fasten his shirt. 

; Peste, the feminine night-rail which he really did carry 
with his razor and a few other necessaries in the little valise 
was still in it. It was absurd to put it on; it seemed to him 
a very absurd garment altogether, but it afforded him a 
chance of getting out of the clothes he wore by day. In a 
moment he would rise and fetch it . . . but just for 
a second or two. ... He gave another mighty yawn 
and fell sideways against the pillow; the next instant he 
had instinctively brought his feet up on to the bed. del! 
was there anything like a good bed after ... He 
stretched out his legs, thrust a hand under the excellent 
down in which his head was sunk . . . and never 
moved again. 

'‘La, Miss Lavinia, Tis you after all thenexclaimed Mrs. 
Jeremy, opening the hall door. “And I just about to dish 


194 


^‘MR. ROWL^^ 


up supper for the Captain; we made sure by this time that 
you wasn’t coming.” 

The tall cloaked form of Miss Barrington stepped briskly 
into the hall. “I rather thought so myself, Hannah, at 
one time. I started later than I should, then the pony cast 
a shoe and had to be walked two miles to the nearest forge 
and the smith knocked up. Is my brother in a very bad 
temper? Put my portmanteau down there, Jacob, and 
get back as fast as you can, or your mother will think that I 
have either eloped with you or sold you for a slave.” ^ And 
as the door shut behind the grinning youth Miss Barrington 
began to divest herself of her cloak. “I’ll not wait to go 
up to my room now, Hannah, and do you for God’s sake 
go and set supper on the table without more delay, or we 
may find ourselves in irons!” 

“ Oh, Miss Lavinia, what things you do put into the Cap¬ 
tain’s mouth, to be sure!” exclaimed Mrs. Jeremy, half 
shocked, half smiling. “Let me take your cloak and bon¬ 
net, Ma’am. Supper is in the breakfast room, because the 

dining room carpet is repairing, and so I thought- Yes, 

Ma'am, you may well ask what that is!" 

For Miss Barrington, having taken off her bonnet, was 
smoothing down her hair, when her glance fell on some¬ 
thing gray lying in a huddle on the seat of the big leather 
chair by the hearth. Picked up, it resolved itself into a 
lady’s hooded cloak. 

“I thought I was the only woman to use this hall as a 
dressing room,” observed Miss Barrington, surveying it. 
“But it seems that I am not!” 

“No, Ma’am,” retimied Mrs. Jeremy, almost bursting. 
“There’s a female—a Spanish female—in this house . . . 
sleeping in this house . . . that the Captain brought 
in this evening . . . picked her up in the road he 

did . . . she’s got over his kind heart . . . and 

what does a gentleman like him know of her sort . . . 

painted, Miss Barrington, and-” 

A door opened upstairs and Hervey’s voice, mildly 
sarcastic, called down: “Mrs. Jeremy, if you are unable, 
through pressure of work, or of conversation, to carry supper 
upstairs, ask Jeremy to do it for you.” 

Mrs. Jeremy put her hand over her mouth and fled. 


DEPARTURE OF HER SUCCESSOR 195 

“ Through pressure of work !'" said Miss Barrington to her¬ 
self. “Work for the Spanish female, I suppose. What 
is Hervey about?—My dear brother,” she called up, “it’s 
I am the culprit, with my abominable lateness. Don’t 
come down, I am coming up—and so is the supper.” With 
a very light foot for her fifty-nine years and her stately 
form she ascended the staircase and received her brother’s 
kiss at the top. “I have left my cloak, too, in the hall,” 
she observed, smiling sweetly—“I mean, my cloak and 
bonnet, too, in the hall. I am sure you don’t mind.” 

“No,” replied Hervey quite innocently, “why should I, 
my dear Lavinia?” He opened the breakfast-room door. 
“I hope you do not object to supping here? The dining¬ 
room carpet-” 

“Yes, Mrs. Jeremy told me,” interposed his sister cheer¬ 
fully. No doubt Hervey wished to know whether Mrs. 
Jeremy had imparted some much more interesting news, 
but that was just what she was not going to reveal. It 
would be far more amusing to watch Hervey’s efforts to 
nerve himself to do it, and to see in what terms he would 
convey the information when he succeeded. Lavinia Bar¬ 
rington, on the brink of sixty, still possessed an unquenchable 
zest for the humorous and cared not how she gratified it. 

But why indeed should Hervey have to find a way of 
announcing the presence of his prot^g^e, when possibly that 
prot^g^e was already waiting to sup with them? But no— 
one glance round the sitting room showed that no dark-eyed 
Castilian or Catalan was there—no high comb, no mantilla, 
no shawl. A second revealed the fact that only two covers 
were laid. Hervey was discreet, then; he had banished the 
Andalusian maid to her room. 

The candles in the branched silver candlesticks, when in 
a moment or two the brother and sister sat down to the 
belated repast, revealed what a handsome woman Miss 
Barrington was, her face untouched as yet by any of the 
disfiguring lines of age, but only by those that testify to 
character. Her hair perhaps had never been so beautiful 
as now in its silvered abundance. She had always been 
handsome; she had always been courted; she had always 
jested at her suitors. But twenty-five years ago the man 
she had loved had married another woman and then died. 


‘‘MR. ROWL^' 


196 

It was not until the end of the meal that Miss Barring¬ 
ton's ears were gratified by the avowal for which they had 
been delightedly waiting. 

“ I had a most curious adventure on the road this evening, 
after that tree had forced us all to leave the coach," began 
Captain Barrington. “ I fell in with an unfortunate French 
girl who had been to Plymouth to see a brother of hers in a 
prison ship there." 

“French, did you say?" asked Miss Barrington in a sur¬ 
prised voice. 

“Yes, why not? The majority of the prisoners are 
French." 

“Curious," murmured his sister. “Yes, go on." 

“Hers was a sad little history," said Hervey, and pro¬ 
ceeded to relate it. 

“Most pathetic," agreed Miss Barrington at the close. 
“What did you do, Hervey?—I know! You paid the 
girl's coach fare to Portsmouth, which I expect was what 
she wanted . . . though I should have thought that 
one seaport town was as good as another . . . I ex¬ 
pect she has a good many of those ‘brothers'!" 

“For shame, Lavinia," said Hervey, reddening. “Why 
are you aspersing a girl whom you have never seen? Do 
you suppose I don't know a female of that sort when I see 
one?" 

“Well, my dear Hervey, I don't feel sure that you 
would." And as her brother made an angry gesture she 
said pacifically, “You must forgive me, for, as you say, I 
have not seen her, and never shall now, I suppose." 

“Yes, you . . . you will have the chance to¬ 
morrow," mmmured Captain Barrington, fidgeting with a 
fork. “ I asked her . . . she was so footsore . . . 

in short, she is in the house to-night . . . Knowing 
that you would be here," he added, a little incoherently. 

Miss Lavinia made no comment at all, just because she 
knew that he would be expecting one. She merely looked 
across the table at him and allowed her smile to broaden 
enjoyably—^more enjoyably to herself than to the Good 
Samaritan at the other end. After a moment she said 
lazily, “Mademoiselle is in the spare bedroom, I suppose? 
May I ask, in that case, what you have done with the 


DEPARTURE OF HER SUCCESSOR 


197 


Spanish girl? Is she occupying your dressing room, or is 
it the other way round?"' 

‘'Spanish girl?” stammered Hervey. "There's no- 

Then you knew all the time, Lavinia I” 

" I know that the Spanish damsel has left her cloak in the 
hall. Is Mrs. Jeremy, who seems to be aware of her 
presence, and to have made notes of her appearance, igno¬ 
rant that you have ensconced a French lady also in this 
hitherto blameless house? Of course, I hardly wonder that 
you did not care to tell her, but you may be quite certain 
that she will soon find out where you have hidden the 
other member of your . . . seraglio. Really, Her¬ 

vey, you to set up as Grand Turk in this fashion!'' 

"Lavinia, oblige me by ceasing to talk nonsense,” said 
her brother rather sternly. "You let your tongue run 
away with you, and your witticisms amuse nobody but 
yourself. There is only one young lady in this house; the 
misundemtanding about her nationality arose because she 
foolishly gave herself out at first to be Spanish, fearing to 
say she was French; but I soon discovered . . . that is 

to say, I discovered . . . that she was not Spanish. 

You shall see her to-morrow and be satisfied that she is not 
a woman of bad character, and you can speed her on her 
way to Portsmouth. Meanwhile, I should be obliged if you 
would drop this meaningless and offensive jesting about 
her.” 

Miss Lavinia made a moue. Then she rose, came to her 
brother, and deposited a kiss on the top of his head. "I 
will, my dear. But can I not see your pretty Puritan—I 
mean your respectable Huguenot—to-night?” 

"No, I am afraid not,” replied Hervey, glancing at the 
clock. "She retired to her room an hour ago; I expect she 
is asleep by now. You must wait until to-morrow.” 

"But I don't want to wait until to-morrow!” said Miss 
Barrington inwardly when, not long after this, she found 
herself in her own bedroom—and that bedroom adjoining 
the apartment of the fair unknown. It was so unusual for 
Hervey to show any interest in the sex other than that de¬ 
manded by ordinary politeness that she was curious to see 
this girl, though at the back of her mind she knew quite 




^^MR. ROWL^' 


198 

well that it was only his humanity which had led him to 
offer her hospitality. She really almost wished it had been 
some warmer feeling. 

Now a former owner of Fairhaven—the same who, ap¬ 
prehensive of house-breakers, had furnished the lower part 
of the house, on the side facing the road, with a series of iron 
spikes—^had seen fit to cut an entrance from the room now 
Miss Barrington's into the powdering closet which was 
properly the appendage of the next. Miss Barrington, 
therefore, had an easy means of access to the latter apart¬ 
ment if she chose to use it, and surely it was almost her duty 
to go in and see if her brother's prot^g^e had all she re¬ 
quired—assuming, of course, that the latter was still 
awake. Indeed, if she were, ought not Miss Barrington to 
put in an appearance for that brother's own sake, lest the 
respectable Huguenot should be thinking her very existence 
a mere invention of her host's? 

Fortified by these excellent reasons Miss Barrington there¬ 
upon went quietly into the powdering closet. And lo, 
duty and desire still rode together, for when she closed 
her door of the cupboard behind her, Lavinia Barrington 
was aware of shafts of light penetrating all round the other 
one which led into the spare bedroom. The visitor there¬ 
fore was still awake ... or else (for there was no 
sound of movement) had fallen asleep and left the candles 
burning, a source of danger which it was one's duty to 
remove. So Miss Barrington tapped at the door con¬ 
fronting her, very gently at first, then louder. There was 
no response, so she opened the door a few inches. 

Yes, the candles were all burning. As Miss Barrington 
herself was still in the cupboard, she could not actually see 
the bed, away on her right, but in her line of vision was the 
gray dress, disposed over a chair. It certainly looked ve^ 
modest, almost Quakerish. Yet on the table by it, full in 
the candlelight, lay something which gave its modesty the 
lie, according in fact much less well with the damsel of her 
brother's imagination than with her of MissLavinia's own— 
a wig. This wig interested Miss Barrington very much 
indeed, and she emerged on tiptoe from the closet in order to 
survey the occupant of the bed . . . and then re¬ 

mained as immobile as Lot's wife. 


DEPARTURE OF HER SUCCESSOR 199 

On the bed—and in no sense in it—with his stockinged 
feet toward her, lay a young man in his shirt and breeches 
fast asleep; so fast that after her momentary petrifaction 
Miss Barrington ventured to tiptoe nearer to verify the 
astounding fact. But there could be no doubt of it. 

He lay on his side, almost on his face, at the edge of the 
bed, the edge nearest to Miss Barrin^on, his left hand 
tucked under the pillow, the right hanging down towards 
the floor. It looked as if he had flung himself there too 
tired to finish undressing. . . . Undressing! Miss 

Barrington’s eyes, suddenly sparkling with mirth, went to the 
gray gown, and then returned to the masquerader. There 
was no getting over the fact. Hervey’s distressed Franco- 
Spanish damsel was a young man, and a personable young 
man at that, though rather thin. From the way he was 
lying she could only just see the profile pressed into the 
pillow; it was true that it was finely cut, and she saw long 
dark lashes and a little close-set ear, but (particularly 
when combined with a man’s shirt open at the throat and a 
pair of gray nankin breeches) it had no suggestion of the 
feminine about it. 

And it was on this good-looking young scamp that Her- 
vey had been squandering his compassion! Miss Lavinia 
put her hand over her mouth. She must remove herself 
before she could give vent to her mirth. But first . . . 

Going cautiously to the door of the room she tried it and 
removed the key; then she hastily caught up in succession 
the gray dress, the woman’s wig and—this brought her 
nearest to the laughter she was staving off—the razor 
which, as she now saw, lay in such telling proximity to 
it. 

At the cupboard door she took a fleeting backward glance. 
The sleeper had not stirred, but the pose, the shape, every¬ 
thing about him looked even more masculine than before. 
How could Hervey have been such a fool! was Miss Barring¬ 
ton’s inward cry as she sped through her own room to ac¬ 
quaint him with the full measure of his folly. 

Captain Barrington had not yet gone to bed. He was 
still in the breakfast room, reading the last number of the 
Gentleman's Magazine by the light of one of the branched 
silver candlesticks from the supper table. The window was 


200 


‘^MR. ROWL’^ 


open, and in the silence, above the lazy monotone of the 
river, could be faintly heard the eternal struggle out on the 

^^‘*Who is that?’' he asked, without turning his head. 
‘‘You, Lavinia?” . 

“Yes,” answered his sister. “I have brought down 
something to show you.” Laying the wig and the razor on 
the table behind him, she advanced into the light of the 
candles with the gray gown over her arm. “ I thought you 
might like to see this,” she observed pleasantly, and held 
it out before him by its sleeves. 

Hervey stared at it with a frown, and then glanced at her 
face—the face of one in the grip of secret merriment. “I 
thought I had begged you to refrain from jesting on that 
subject,” he said. “And why, if you niust go into the girl’s 
room, need you bring her dress away with you?” 

“ For you to see, my dear chivalrous brother! For you to 
gaze on, Don Quixote, because it is the last you will ever 
behold of your damsel in distress. This gown . . . and 

this!” She stretched out a hand and added the wig to 
her exhibition. “Pretty curls, are they not? They 
do not altogether match the genuine article though, I 
fancy.” 

like an automaton Hervey had slowly risen to his feet, 
his eyes as though they beheld a basilisk. “What on 
earth . . . Has the girl gone?—But she could not go, 

wanting ...” , 

“Yes, she could,” broke in his sister, strugglmg with her 
mirth. “She could vanish in the way that hard-pressed 
ladies sometimes did, I seem to remember, in heathen 
mythology. Some nymph or other, I know, turned her¬ 
self into a laurel. This nymph has taken the shape”—^she 
threw down dress and wig and once more picked something 
off the table—“ the shape, Hervey, that requires this o’ 
mornings!” She flashed the razor open and burst into a 
peal of laughter. “ Oh, Hervey, Hervey, how could you be 
so misled? I said I was not sure you knew the kind of 
woman you had befriended. . . . There he lies, on 

your best spare bed, in his shirt and breeches, and there, 
judging from the way he is sleeping, he will lie till morning. 
I should like to see his face when he wakes and finds the 


DEPARTURE OF HER SUCCESSOR 201 

means of continuing his nymphhood taken from him. . . . 
'V^at are you doing, Hervey?’' 

For while she laughed and teased, Captain Barrington had 
gone into the darker portion of the room, and she now 
heard him opening a drawer. Yet when he came back into 
the light it was not what he carried in his hand so much as 
his face which caught Miss Lavinia’s eyes and held them. 
For perhaps the first time in forty years she felt a little 
frightened. 

“Is that loaded, Hervey?” 

Her brother did not answer, but the fact that he ex¬ 
amined the priming was an answer. Then he lifted his 
head, and out of the lips whose familiar lines were all 
altered asked peremptorily: 

“How did you get in? Had he not locked the door?“ 

“ Yes, I went in through the powdering closet. That does 
not fasten; the bolt is &oken. But I took away the key 
of his room and locked my door on the outside.'' 

“Is the key still in the lock—your key?" 

“No. I ... I think I brought that away too. 
Yes." 

“Give it to me!" 

“ I will if you will put back that pistol." 

“Give it to me, please!" 

And slowly Miss Lavinia brought out a key from her 
pocket and laid it on the table. 

“ Is that the key of your room or of his?—I’ll have both, 
please!" 

“Hervey . . . he's only a boy . . . and looks 
so tired!” 

For the first time in his life her brother exploded into an 
oath in her presence. “Not too tired to fool me—twice 
over—thrice over—^not too much of a boy to pay for it, as 
he shall! ” The words came out like missiles. 

“But, Hervey, you can’t murder him—^here, in your own 
house!” 

“Murder?" exclaimed her brother on a strange, high 
note. “Of course I am not going to murder him. But he 
is a French prisoner escaped from the hulks. ... I 
see it all now . . . and I am going to send him back 
whence he came!" 


202 


‘^MR. ROWL^^ 


“But you cannot send him back to-night, brother!” 

“ I never said I should. But I am going to let him know 
it and-Give me the other key!” 

“Oh, Hervey,” pleaded his sister in a most imusual tone, 
“why go up to-night at all, as you can do nothing, and he 
cannot get away? Why not wait till morning? ” 

“No, he cannot get away . . . but there are things 

I can do,” responded Hervey grimly. “Give me the 
other key at once, and send Jeremy up to wait in your 
room in case I need him. Do you hear?” 

“But, Hervey,” protested Miss Barrington as, rather 
flushed, she reluctantly produced the second key, “with that 
large pistol you cannot possibly need Jeremy as well in 
order to master one haK-starved lad from the hulks! If 
that is where he comes from I can understand better why 
he-” 

you mind your own business, Lavinia?” broke in 
her brother savagely, and pulled at the bellrope. “If 
Jeremy has gone to bed he's to get up at once. I may not 
want him, but I intend him to be handy, in your room. 
Do you understand? And you will kindly stay down here.” 
He put the pistol in his pocket, took one of the candelabra, 
and left the room. 

Miss Lavinia stood a moment irresolute, looking from the 
closed door to the gray gown in a heap on the table, and in 
that moment unfeignedly regretting, if not her discovery, 
at least her too hasty and facetious announcement of it. 
It was that, no doubt of it, which had helped to blow 
Hervey's fury to such white heat against the culprit—her 
emphasis on that point of which he must be only too 
stingingly aware, that he had not merely been deceived, but 
ludicrously deceived. On a sudden impulse she started 
for the door, but ere she reached it it opened to admit the 
large form of John Jeremy, the solid and faithful and 
bearded, and instead of going to the rescue upstairs she per- 
ceiv^ the uselessness of such an attempt, and conveyed to 
him instead his master's instructions. 

The ex-coxswain received the transmitted orders with his 
usual ready obedience, at once impassive and slightly sur¬ 
prised. 

“In your room, Miss Barrington? Yes, to be sure. 



DEPARTURE OF HER SUCCESSOR 203 

Well now, an escaped French prisoner! Tis likely he’ll 
fight like a hell-cat!” 

'‘I don’t think so,” said Miss Lavinia rather sadly. '"I 
fancy you will have an easy task, Jeremy.” And to herself, 
left alone once more, she said, '‘1 wish now that I had 
never gone into that room! Yet it was a diverting situa¬ 
tion . . . though I suppose one could not expect 

Hervey to see it in that light. . . . I do hope he will 
not use that pistol! What did he mean he was going to do 
to him?” And though at last she sat down and took up 
the Gentleman's Magazine and held it open at the ‘'His¬ 
torical Account of Rainham Church, Kent,” she was listen¬ 
ing all the time for the sound of a shot from upstairs. 


CHAPTER IV 

THE BATTLE OF THE SPARE BEDROOM 

“All imposture weakens confidence and chills benevolence. When 
the sage finds that you are not what you seemed, he will feel the 
resentment natural to a man who . . . discovers that he has 
been tricked.”— Rasselas, chap. xlvi. 

The dreamless sleep in which Raoul was sunk was still 
dreamless, but not so deep as when Miss Lavinia had made 
her incursion into his bedchamber, for a slight sound 
echoed down to him where he lay in oblivion as at the bot¬ 
tom of a well. And though the sound was not actively 
registered by his mind, it disturbed him, and with a mut¬ 
tered exclamation he flung up his arm and turned over 
on to his back. The movement jolted him still nearer to 
consciousness, so that his body, at least, realized the space 
and comfort of what it was lying on, after the cramped ham¬ 
mock in suffocating darkness and too close companionship; 
and at last the fully sentient Raoul himself became aware 
that he was surrounded by light, air, and silence instead 
of the usual noisy fetid gloom in which he slept. He 
opened his eyes with a start and remembered where he was 
—and saw that he had most reprehensibly left the candles 
burning when sleep overtook him. 

But surely there was a fresh source of light in the room, 
by that cupboard door? Raoul turned his head to see . . . 
and his heart stood still within him. There, a branched 
candlestick in his left hand, stood Captain Hervey Barring¬ 
ton, looking at him with an expression there was no mis¬ 
reading. In his other hand was that which very effectively 
backed up the expression. 

'Hf you move, I shall fire!'' he said briefly. 

But the words were not out of his mouth before Raoul was 
off the bed and at the door ... to stay there. The 
204 


THE BATTLE OF THE SPARE BEDROOM 205 

key was gone. Backed against its panels, his breath com¬ 
ing fast, his hands clenched, he faced the levelled pistol 
again. 

‘'Yes, that place will do as well as any other,’' observed 
Hervey coolly, and without removing his eyes from him or 
lowering the barrel he set down the light on the nearest 
table. “Now, make over everything you have—plans, 
papers, money. I know what you are! ” 

The bitter shock had not deprived Raoul of his wits, and 
they worked quickly. Since Captain Barrington could 
not have come in through this locked door—even though 
now, presumably, he had possessed himself of the key— 
there must have been another entrance to that cupboard 
after all. If he could only get him to move away from 
it! . . . Raoul gave what had all the appeamnce of 

being an involuntary glance toward the little valise lying 
on the centre table—even, at the risk of a bullet, made a 
tiny, instantly checked movement towards it. His ma¬ 
noeuvre told, though Hervey did not abandon his post. 

“Bring that thing here!” he commanded. 

But Raoul did not move. “ Is it likely? Go and get it 
yourseK! You cannot terrorize me with that pistol, be¬ 
cause I do not care whether you shoot me or no.” 

Hervey gave a very disagreeable smile. “I shall take 
great care not to kill you outright, and, as I am a dead shot, 
I can hit you exactly where I please—^break your leg for 
choice. I shall count five; I do not threaten twice. One, 

two, three-” • ^ i i 

An excuse for altering his tactics was just what Raoul 
wanted now. He went slowly and with apparent imwill- 
ingness to the centre table. Captain Barrington keeping him 
covered the while, and took up the valise. 

“Bring it over here and put it dovm by the candlestick. 
Now take out all its contents, one thing at a time, and lay 
them beside it.” 

Watching his moment, Raoul removed a clean shirt, a brush 
and comb, a pair of stockings, and began to take out the 
nightshirt. Then, suddenly flinging this at his captors’ 
head, he made a spring past him for the cupboard door. 
But Hervey was on the watch too, and a boxer, and as he 
saw the white folds coming at him he sidestepped, grasped 



‘^MR. ROWL^' 


206 

Raoul by the throat with his left hand, and hurled him off 
with such violence that the young man was spun back as far 
as the foot of the bed, his shirt ripped to the waist. 

‘^It is no good trying that!'' said Hervey contemptu¬ 
ously. '^Besides, my man is in the other room now." He 
raised his voice. Jeremy!" 

‘^Here, Sir." , 

'‘Stand by to stop him coming through, if he tnes it 
again." 

“Ay, ay, Sir." . . 

And, assured of his reinforcements. Captain Bamngton 
viewed with a sardonic indifference the dash his quarry then 
made for the further window, the feverish way in which he 
tugged aside the curtains, threw up the sash and thrust his 
head out. . . 

“Is there light enough for you to see what is waiting for 
you down below there?" enquired Hervey. “I hope so, 
because I don’t particularly want your corpse impaled on 
my railings.” His tone, however, did not suggest that the 
contingency would greatly troulDle him, and he turned, 
keeping no more than half an eye on the suddenly rigid 
figure by the window, and tipped out the few remaining 
articles in the valise on to the table. But, except for a 
purse with a little silver, he drew blank; the fellow—^who 
must have more than that—had tricked him again. 

As for Raoul himself, his vision of escape by the window 
had indeed been brief. It was no wonder that Captain 
Barrington had not opposed his opening it. There was 
light enough for him to see what was waiting for him down 
at the bottom of the bare, creeperless wall—the horrible 
chevaux-de-frise of long spikes turned in every direction, 
impossible to escape by jumping or dropping. And 
climbing down was out of the question, for there was no 
foothold of any sort, not even a pipe. He remained there 
without moving, despair in his heart, while the soft, inflow¬ 
ing night air mocked him with its associations of space and 
freedom. 

“Come, turn out your pockets without more ado," came 
Captain Barrington’s voice harshly. “It is no good de¬ 
ferring the inevitable." 

Give up without a struggle his only means of procuring 


THE BATTLE OF THE SPARE BEDROOM 207 


liberty, give up at his bidding Juliana s smuggled money! 
All the concentrated horror of the place from which her 
devotion had succeeded in extricating him, rushed past 
Raoul in a hurricane of memory and resolution. He would 
never let himself be sent back alive! But if ever he sue- 
ce^ed in leaving this house which he had so foolishly en¬ 
tered, without money or disguise or even adequate clothmg, 
his plight would be hopeless. And yet how could he avoid 
having the money taken from him in the end? 

He loosed the curtain which his hand was gripping and 


faced his captor. ^ 

“Haven’t you any pity, Captam Bamngton? he asked 

in a low, difficult voice. i j ^ xi, 

“None,” responded Hervey. You worked out the vein 
too successfully this evening—damn you!” he added al¬ 
most inaudibly. . ^ ^ i 

It was true; Raoul knew it. He had been too successful 
for pardon. And yet—what else could he have done but 
pit his wits against the Englishman’s? . • x 

“It is of no use thinking of any more moving stories to 
play off on me,” resumed Hervey, bitter mockery m his 
tone. “You cannot expect to fool even me any more. 
Nor,” he added, as Raoul seemed about to speak, is it any 
use telling me your own. I will not listen to it.” 

“You have already heard it,” said Raoul rather un¬ 
steadily. Except that I changed the name of the hulk. I 

was in the Ganges,** . . 

“ Indeed? Well, it will be pleasant to return to familiar 
scenes. Though I suppose the ship’s Black Hole mil re¬ 
ceive you for a while first. Have you sampled it yet. 

Raoul came forward a little. He was as white as his tom 
shirt. 

“If you think I am going back alive to that hell, Captem 
Barrington, you are mistaken!” His voice shook, but 
speech poured out of him so hot and fast that it was impos¬ 
sible to stop him. “You can stand there, in no danger of 
cruelty yourself, and use words which prove that you know 
to what you are condemning a fellow creature. I would 
not send my worst enemy to a prison-ship ‘ • no 

not even the man whose practices sent me there! And what 
have I done to you? Did you expect me, directly you 


208 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


addressed me, against my will, on the road, to tell you 
exactly who and what I was? My God, you would not care 
how many lies you told if you were fighting for your life— 
yes, for your life! I was strong and well when I went to the 
Ganges . . . but go through even a few months of 
that degradation and starvation, and see what you are 
like at the end of them, and whether you would not almost 
sell what soul is left to you rather than endure them again! 
And I am a prisoner of war, an officer like yourself, taken in 
fair fight as you may be some day. . . . No, you shcdl 
hear me! My name is Raoul des Sablieres, a captain in 
the Third Hussars, and I am by rights a parole prisoner, but 
first I was sent to Norman Cross on a false accusation, and 
then to the hulks for attempting to escape from an imprison¬ 
ment which I had never merited. Would you not have 
done the same? Why should your country treat me as a 
criminal?’' 

“Because,” said Hervey, a certain merciless satisfaction 
in his eyes, “she happens, like most civilized nations, to 
regard the breach of military parole as a crime. Your 
case, I see, is plain, M. Raoul des Sablieres—^and only too 
common amongst your compatriots. I really wonder at 
the leniency which sent you to Norman Cross instead of 
direct to the hulks. That is the more fitting place for a 
parole-breaker.” 

“I am not a parole-breaker!” 

“For what were you sent to Norman Cross, then?—No, 
I don’t want to hear another farrago of lies, thanks; I have 
lost interest in your inventions. I only want-” 

But Raoul broke in stormily. “I see, there is no justice 
in England, and it is useless to plead with any Englishman 
in uniform! You too, you do not know what it is to suffer 
injustice—you are of those who dispense it! If you knew a 
little-” 

“That is enough!” Hervey stopped him, his face sud¬ 
denly darkened. “I have listened to sufficient falsehoods; 
I am not called upon to hear insults. Hand over your 
money and papers, and we will conclude this interview. In 
the morning you will be taken back to the Ganges^ to find 
what scope you can for your peculiar talents.” 

He had had the pistol in his hand all this while, though he 


THE BATTLE OF THE SPARE BEDROOM 209 

had dropped the barrel. With these words he raised it 
and once more covered his prisoner. “Now, please!’' 

Raoul put his hands behind him. “You can rob me, 
Captain Barrington,” he said, slowly, coldly, and rolling the 
rs more than was habitual with him in English, “because I 
am in your power in your house to which you invited me 
. . . but I think you will not send me back to the Ganges 
to-morrow.” 

“Indeed?” retorted Hervey with an appearance of in¬ 
terest. “And how are you going to prevent me?” 

said Raoul between his teeth, his hands coming 
forward very suddenly; and he launched himself at his en¬ 
emy like a panther. 

He was so quick that he took Hervey by surprise and got 
within the pistol’s guard; his hands sought Captain Bar- 
ington’s throat, and for a second or two they really wres¬ 
tled, Hervey being hampered by the cocked pistol, which 
he feared to drop lest it should go off, and which he was 
equally determined not to use. Nor would he have called 
to Jeremy, but that worthy, hearing trampling feet, burst 
unsummoned through the cupboard; and at that Raoul, 
seeing that he was going to be taken in the rear, relaxed his 
grip. This was Hervey’s opportunity; he also let go, 
'Stepped back a foot or two, and then his left fist, shooting 
out like lightning, landed a punishing blow on his assail¬ 
ant’s mouth. Raoul’s arms went wide, he reeled and would 
have gone down if Jeremy, hurrying round, had not caught, 
or rather, captured him. 

“All right, Jeremy—though I didn’t need you,” said his 
master. “Can’t he stand? Put him in that chair and 
when he^ comes to you can turn out his pockets. No, not 
yet—wait a moment.” 

The ex-coxswain deposited Raoul, unresisting and half 
dazed, in the chair in which he had sat to eat his supper. 
Hardly knowing what he did, the young man put his el¬ 
bows on the table, his head between his hands, and stared 
at the splashes of blood from his mouth as they appeared on 
the inlaid rosewood. Finally he reached out a shaking 
hand for the napkin which still lay there and held it to his 
lips. 

It was not consideration in Hervey Barrington which 


210 


^^MR. ROWL^' 


caused him to leave his prisoner time to recover—far from 
it. He had been so deeply humiliated himself, his self¬ 
esteem had taken so intolerable a wound, that if, as he 
guessed, it would humiliate as well as anger this young 
trickster to have his last hope taken from his oym person, he 
should not suffer that ignominy hardly knowing what was 
happening to him. 

To ascertain whether he were still in that condition or no 
he came over to the table and spoke to him. 

“You brought that blow on yourself,’' he said harshly. 

Raoul raised his head. His eyes were extraordinarily 
bright. He removed the blood-stained napkin and said, as 
distinctly as he could for his cut and swollen lip, “Why did 
you not fire . . . like a gentleman? ” 

“Ah, was that what you were after?” exclaimed Hervey, 
a light breaking on him. “No, my friend! And in any 
case let me tell you that I don’t believe in these heroics. 
You will have got the better of them to-morrow.” He 
made a sign to Jeremy. “You can search him now.” 

The order brought Raoul, unsteady as he was, to his feet 
again, and his glance at Jeremy was such that that worthy 
mariner hesitated. Raoul then turned the look on Jeremy’s 
master. 

“What right have you to take my money?” he demanded 
fiercely. ‘ ‘ I never asked you to bring me into your house 1 ’ ’ 

“If you will give it to me it will not have to be taken 
from you,” was all that Captain Barrington replied. 

“You will get ten guineas for betraying me,” went on 
Raoul, tense and quivering. “Isn’t that enough? And 
you do not run any risk . . . two of you . . . 

armed. . . .” 

“What are you waiting for?” said Hervey sharply to his 
henchman. He had reddened. “The money must be in 
his breeches pocket.” 

This was obvious, since the torn shirt could now conceal 
nothing. The faithful Jeremy made to fling his weight 
upon the defiant figure, but before he could lay a finger on 
him Raoul had snatched up the nearest candlestick, which 
was tall, and of heavy Sheffield plate, and had aimed a 
savage blow with its base at his head. It missed and 
took the sailor on the shoulder. The next moment its 


THE BATTLE OF THE SPARE BEDROOM 211 


giver was backed against the far wall by the window, clutch¬ 
ing the candlestick like a mace. 

“You will have to divide that ten guineas, Captain 
Barrington!” he called out. 

But Jeremy, whose temper was roused by the blow, 
gave him no second chance of using his weapon. In the 
twinkling of an eye it was twisted out of his hand, and he 
himself pinned against the wall by sheer weight, his arms, 
in Jeremy’s powerful grip, spread out on either side like 
those of a fruit tree. But even then, though he had him 
helpless, Jeremy could not search him, for he had not a 
hand to spare for the operation; moreover Raoul was still 
struggling hard to the best of his very limited ability. 

“Keep still, ye wildcat!” said Jeremy, and gave him a 
hack on the shins with his solid footgear. “You’ll have to 
help me. Sir,” he called over his shoulder. “He’m like an 
eel!” 

“Do, Captain Barrington!” laughed Raoul wildly. 
“Don’t let your servant do all the kicking!—Take your 
beard out of my face, damn you! ” 

And Hervey had to come and help, after all, in what he 
suddenly felt was a sorry affair. The Frenchman might 
have the spirit of a wildcat, as Jeremy had called him, but 
he had little physical strength left to back it. up; indeed, 
after Hervey had torn the packet of notes out of one 
breeches pocket and a few papers and a map out of the 
other, the captive said in a changed voice to Jeremy, who 
still held him pinned against the wall, “If you will let me 
go now ... I will not do anything . . . I . . . 

I . . .” He frowned and shut his eyes. 

Hervey looked up from the notes he was examining by 
the centre table. “Let him go, Jeremy,” he said abruptly. 
“It would be a nuisance if he were to faint.” Jeremy 
dubiously relaxed his grip. Raoul opened his eyes, clenched 
his hands, and guiding himself by the wall,^ reached the 
window where the cool air was still coming in gratefully. 
He sank down on its very wide, low sill, and put his head 
against the side. Everything was finished, and he, too. 

“Is this money your own?” came Hervey Barrington’s 
voice after a moment. 

Why talk about it any more? But Raoul roused himself. 


212 


'^MR. ROWL” 


'‘It has not been stolen . . . until this last five min¬ 

utes,” he replied without moving. His captor had in his 
hands too Juliana's letter to him at Norman Cross, which 
he had treasured as a sort of talisman, and some of her 
brief later ones also. 

Hervey finished his examination and looked across at 
the motionless figure on the window seat. What was he 
going to do with him for the remainder of the night? The 
safest plan would undoubtedly be to tie him up. But 
that would mean manhandling hirn again, and he had had 
enough of that; for he found, to his surprise, that the pros¬ 
pect of mastering him once more rather sickened him. 
The first heat of his fury, indeed, was gone now. He 
pondered, with a frown, the feasibility of leaving him 
loose. Escape by the window was impossible, and he could 
run that very heavy chest of drawers in Lavinia's room 
against the cupboard door from the other side. 

Raoul suddenly turned his head. "May I have my 
pocket handkerchief?” he enquired in a lifeless voice. His 
pockets had been rifled of that too, and it lay on the table. 
It was obvious why he needed it. 

"Yes, if you will come and fetch it,” replied Hervey, 
who wanted to get him into the light again for survey. 

With a stifled sigh the young man rose and came, noiseless 
in his stockinged feet, the blood coursing anew down his 
chin from his lip. Hervey's eyes were drawn by one or two 
trickles on his chest, a good deal exposed by the now 
even more torn shirt. . . . Leanness of that degree was 
almost emaciation. . . . No, shame forbade any more 
rough handling. He would have to take just one precau¬ 
tion, however, in case that window proved too tempting, 
despite the chevaux-de-frise below. 

"Come here, Jeremy.” He led the sailor aside and 
whispered to him, while Raoul, with his head bent, dabbed 
slowly at his lip with his recovered handkerchief. For the 
moment his brain felt empty of thought or plan—^besides, 
what use planning without a penny or even a coat to cover 
him? His body ached all over. He only wanted to sleep. 
Soon he would be able to . . . unless Captain Barring¬ 
ton meant to have him removed and locked up this night? 
It was too late, surely. He went back to his place in the 


THE BATTLE OF THE SPARE BEDROOM 213 


dark comer by the window and sat down again patiently. 
‘^Juliana, he has taken your money away . . . your 
money, curse him! I can do nothing now. . . ^ 

I want you to come away from that window, please,'' 
said Captain Barrington's icy voice once more. There is 
something to be done in that comer.—You can start there, 
Jeremy. Shut the window first." 

And once more Raoul obediently got up and came away. 

‘'Sit there, where I can see you." 

It mattered little where he was now, so Raoul sat at the 
table in the middle of the room, an elbow on it, and his 
handkerchief still pressed to his mouth. And suddenly he 
caught the eyes of his enemy looking at him, hard and cold, 
yet with something in them he could not read. He straight¬ 
ened himself, and defiance began to tingle once more along 
his veins. 

“Well, I hope you are satisfied with your revenge," he 
said. “By the way, it is not usually considered chivalrous 
to strike a woman." 

Hervey did not condescend to answer, and removed his 
gaze to the window, where Jeremy, mounted rather precari¬ 
ously upon a chair, was beginning to take down a cur¬ 
tain. 

“And how much," went on Raoul jeeringly —“how 
much were they worth, your protestations and yoi^ mythi¬ 
cal duenna of a sister, when the first thing you did was to 
force a midnight entrance by a secret door into the bedroom 
of the girl who had thrown herself upon your chivalry?" 

This imputation, at least, was more than Hervey Barring¬ 
ton could endure in silence. 

“ It was my sister herself who discovered you, and in¬ 
formed me," he said curtly, and half turned his back. 

Raoul shrugged his shoulders. “As I was asleep I 
naturally cannot tell whether that is a ‘farrago of lies' or 
not. However, I am glad to think," he went on, leaning 
back in his chair, “that I did not kiss your hand. But 

you-" He did not need to finish, for he saw the angry 

red mount into Captain Barrington's cheek, and he broke 
off into a laugh himself. “Which did you really prefer, 
the senora or my sister? I ham a sister, you know!" 

“Take down both curtains, idiot!" said Hervey to the 


214 


MR. ROWL^' 


window. Raoul turned, and for the first time beheld what 
was happening there. His eyes lit up. 

'' l am not worthy of curtains in my prison? he enquired. 
'^Or is it a regular . . . demenagement? But you must 
allow me to assist. Your hired bully does not seem skill¬ 
ful.^' 

Sit down!" thundered Hervey. And, as if this had been 
a command to him, the unlucky Jeremy, stepping off the 
chair, became entangled at that moment in the released 
curtain, and he too sat down—^very heavily—^upon the 
floor. Raoul gave one wild little yell of laughter and, 
bending forward, buried his face in his hands and shook for 
a second or two. Then he raised his head expectantly in 
time to see the coxswain get up ruefully, rubbing himself, 
and went off into another fit. It was genuine laughter, if a 
thought hysterical. 

‘'Now the other window," said Hervey crossly. 

“You will not allow me?" asked Raoul, looking up. 
“I am not so heavy; the floor would suffer less." 

Hervey disregarded this; but it became too much for him 
when, Jeremy proceeding under his direction to dismantle 
the bed, Raoul deliberately moved his chair so that he could 
have a good view of the operation, which he punctuated by 
a running commentary of remarks, ostensibly to himself. 

“It really is a demenagement —^but what an hour for it! 
I have always been told that the English are mad. The 
sheets ^ . . . the blankets . . . the mattress too!" 
(for this also was being rolled up by the perspiring Jeremy.) 
“ I suppose that is to be burnt because I have lain upon it. 
But I am not verminous now . . . no, not in the least! 
How clever—he will tie it up with the bell-pull. But how 
will the good man get all that through the door? Tiens, 
he is leaving the napkin. . . 

“Will you be quiet!" broke in Hervey savagely at last, 
fOT his henchman was getting so flustered under this fire of 
ridicule that the mattress burst from his grasp, and he had to 
assist him to re-roll it. “You young fool, can't you see 
that I am putting myself to all this trouble merely to spare 
you? Do you think I am going to leave you loose in a 
room with the means of letting yourself down from that 
window to your hand, and with a convenient mattress to 


THE BATTLE OF THE SPARE BEDROOM 215 

throw on the spikes, if you were so crazy as to risk death 
or mutilation out there? If I left these things I should 
have to tie you up hand and foot . . . and I make a 

sailor's, not a landsman's, knots!—Put those things through 
into Miss Barrington's room, Jeremy; she will not be sleep¬ 
ing there to-night; and I will come and secure the cupboard 
door.—Now, do you understand, mountebank?" 

'^Yes," said Raoul. He stood up. '‘You are indeed 
kind to spare me a night in bonds, and to take away from 
the bad child the means of doing itself a mischief. I sup¬ 
pose I must set it against your having also taken away my 
liberty . . . and refused to take my life. . . . 
Never mind. Captain Barrington, I daresay I can find a 
means of getting rid of that, if the worst comes to the worst 
. . . and although you do not believe in heroics. I 

wish you good repose!" 

Hervey gave him a long, stem look, and without a word 
turned on his heel and went towards the cupboard. 

"Your walk," observed Raoul softly after him, "reminds 
me strongly of that of my dear and faithless Tomas!" 

The door of the cupboard slammed. A mornent later 
came soimds of a heavy object being put against its farther 
door. Raoul stood motionless, listening. When all sounds, 
even in the passage outside, had ceased, his figure relaxed, 
and he turned and sat down somewhat suddenly, and 
stared at the fioor, his head between his fists. He remained 
in that attitude for a considerable time. . . . Then, 

after a glance at what had once been a comfortable bed, he 
cxirled himself up like a boy in a large chair, his head on the 
arm, and lay there perfectly still. He was tired to the 
point of exhaustion—and more than tired. Now and 
again a long sigh shook him, but there was no other sound; 
and when, about an hour later, the moon was able to look 
in at the uncurtained windows, he had straightened himself 
out a little, and she could see his upturned, sleeping face. 
And she tried, first, to smooth out the contractions in it 
with the same silver touch which had revealed them, and 
then, pitying this haggard Endymion who was dreaming, 
not of Dian’s kiss, but of the realms of the dead, she with¬ 
drew her light behind a bank of cloud, and the room sank 
again into darkness. 


CHAPTER V 

THE CRUISE OF THE KESTREL 


He now felt a degree of regret with which he had never been before 
acquainted . . and he was long before he could be reconciled to 

himself.— Rasselas, chap. iv. 

The household at Fairhaven might have been “put about'' 
the previous night as never within living memory, Miss 
Barrington, despite her protests, sleeping in her brother’s 
room, and Captain Barrington in his dressing room. Miss La- 
vinia’s own room “all upside down and full of curtains and 
mattresses and bell-ropes,” these permutations on account 
of the presence of a French hussy alleged by Jeremy, when 
he at last sought the connubial chamber, to be a young man. 
Yet even this spiritual and physical turmoil had no power to 
make Mrs. Jeremy late with breakfast next morning. 

But brother and sister alike ate her excellent fare rather 
silently. Hervey had told Lavinia overnight as much as 
he had a mind to, and he did not amplify his information 
this morning, nor, curiously, did Miss Lavinia animadvert 
in her wonted style either upon the humour of the situation 
or upon his share in the epic of the spare bedroom—of which 
she had already wrested a fuller version from John Jeremy. 
She was in truth regretting with all her heart that she had 
let Hervey into the secret of her discovery; for one thing she 
fancied she could have had a much better laugh at him after¬ 
wards if she had allowed him, all unsuspecting, to despatch 
Mademoiselle on her way to Portsmouth; for another the 
lad himself would not now be on the point of return to that 
horrid captivity from which he had employed so much 
ingenuity to escape. 

it was true that Hervey was not displaying any great 
haste to inform the authorities of his presence, but she 
knew that it was useless to try to move him from the per- 
216 


THE CRUISE OF THE KESTREL 


217 


formance of what he considered his duty. And, any vin¬ 
dictive feelings apart, no doubt it was his duty to deliver up 
the fugitive. 

Miss Lavinia glanced at the clock as she rose from the 
breakfast table, and opened the casement window on to the 
jasmine and climbing rose. Down below, the little square 
garden lay smiling in the August sun, refreshed to a new 
greenness by a heavy dew, and sending up the invisible in¬ 
cense of stocks and lavender. The mulberry tree hung its 
ripening fruit over the old teak bench; sparkling and sing¬ 
ing and very blue, the river poured by; a couple of wagtails 
were taking excited little runs over the grass. Farther on 
were the clustered houses of old Stowey, pricked with masts, 
but from here the actual mouth of the estuary could not 
be seen. Hervey’s sailing boat, the Kestrel, was tugging 
gently at her mooring buoy in mid-channel. What a 
morning to go back to prison—and such a prison! 

“Has your captive had anything to eat yet?’' asked Miss 
Barrington casually as she picked a sprig of jasmine. 

Her brother was turning over the pages of a nautical 
almanac. “No, I don’t suppose he has,” he answered in an 
indifferent tone. 

“Then, if you will forgive my suggesting it, would it not 
be as well to send him up something, if he has later to take 
the journey back to Plymouth, or even to go to the lock-up 
here. ... I don’t know what your plans are,” she 
added half apologetically. 

“ 'Send him up something,”’ repeated Captain Barrington, 
laying down the almanac. “You talk, Lavinia, as if Mrs. 
Jeremy could go in carrying breakfast as to a guest. Do 
you know that your ‘poor tired boy’ fought like a demon 
last night, and that it took the two of us to hold him? ” 

Now Miss Lavinia did know this, but she was making 
great efforts after discretion—perhaps not altogether suc¬ 
cessfully, since she objected: “But, even if he is such a 
desperate character, surely Jeremy could venture in, pro¬ 
vided that you were there to protect him—^with your 
pistol!” 

Captain Barrington’s face darkened, and he turned to his 
almanac again. 

“Surely you cannot really think it is too dangerous to 


218 


‘‘MR. ROWL^^ 


go in?” resumed his sister, still with that unusual note of 
pleading in her voice. “And to give him an extra dose of 
starvation when you know it is what he is going back to— 
I have heard that the food in the prison ships is almost un¬ 
eatable—to do that just because you are . . . annoyed 
. . . with him is so unlike you, that I am sure it can 
only be because you have forgotten that you have given no 
orders.” 

“Why do you think it is so unlike me?” asked Hervey. 
He had his back turned and was fidgeting with his book. 
“You do not know of what a man is capable when he is 
—annoyed—as you call it. I did not Imow myself until 
last night,” he added, in a voice so low that his sister did 
not catch it. “But it is quite true,” he concluded, turning 
round, “that I had forgotten the question of food. I will 
rectify the omission.” 

“I was sure you had,” said Miss Lavinia, and as he rang 
the bell she smiled at him like a grey-haired angel. 

But Hervey did not take the pistol when he accompanied 
Jeremy to the prisoner’s room, for he had learnt the useless¬ 
ness of that weapon in the hands of a man who is deter¬ 
mined not to use it to kill, does not wish to use it to wound, 
and knows that as a threat it has no power whatever. He 
would not have gone there at all but that it was, plainly, 
necessary that someone should unlock and guard the door 
for Jeremy, encumbered as he was with a tray and liable 
to be sprung upon. 

However, the prisoner did not spring on John Jeremy 
when he entered. He did not greet him in any way what¬ 
ever, as Hervey, outside, holding the door just ajar, was 
aware. He heard Jeremy deposit the tray upon something; 
after which there was dead silence for a moment, and then 
his gruff voice, with a note of alarm in it: 

“Cap’n Barrington—please to come in at once. Sir!” 

Hervey’s own heart gave the most unexpected twist in 
his breast. The boy had somehow cut his throat or hanged 
himself! Why had he not foreseen this? He went in, so 
sure of it that he did not lock the door. 

The large form of Jeremy seemed to obscure everything. 
“He’s gone, Sir—he’s not in the room, unless he’s in the 
wardrobe yonder.” 


219 


THE CRUISE OF THE KESTREL 


Gone? Yes, by George, the window was open! But that 
was suicide also—God Imew that that had been made clear. 
No, he must be in the room somewhere—under the bed, in 
the powdering closet. . . . The open window was 

merely a ruse, and Jeremy was a fool—and he too. He 
snatched the key from the lock outside and fastened the 
door. 

“Have you looked under the bed?’' 

No, Jeremy had not. He did it there and then, while 
Hervey wrenched open the door of the big mahogany ward¬ 
robe. Quite empty. He was hiding in the closet, then. 
Could he possibly have pushed aside the barrier and got 
into Lavinia’s room? They would soon see. 

They did. The closet was as empty as the wardrobe, and 
the far door immovable. Yes, the captive was, indubitably, 
gone. And since he had been deprived of all, even the most 
makeshift means of letting himself down from that high 
window, and there existed on that bare wall no natural 
ones, he must have jumped, or let himself fall. In that 
case- 

Hervey Barrington, who had fought at Trafalgar, turned 
white. He was for a moment on the point of ordering Jer¬ 
emy, who was still gazing round the cupboard, to go first 
and look out of the window. But it was he himself who had 
driven the boy to it, and he must face the consequences of 
his action. He went over to the open window, stood for a 
second or two, and then put his head out. 

He had already in his mind so vivid a picture of that 
light, half-clad body transfixed on the hellish invention 
below, that the fact of there being nothing there did not con¬ 
vey itself immediately to his brain. And when it did, it 
seemed so incredible that for a flash he thought his eyes 


were playing him a trick. ^ . t 

“Jeremy, come here!” Serious and heavy-footed, Jer¬ 
emy came. “There is nothing, after all, on those spikes, 
is there? ” 

Jeremy Jooked out. “No, Sir, nothing. He must ’a’ 
jumped clear of ’em somehow.” , • i i 

They stared at each other. Then Hervey, leaning back 
against the wall, passed his hand over his eyes. 

“There’s not a rag on ’em. Sir, not a mark, so far as I can 



220 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


see/' continued Jeremy, his head out of the window again. 
"'Unless someone's took him off 'em, he never fell on 'em 
at all." 

"But ... he couldn't fly!" said Hervey, feeling 
an odd disposition to laugh. Once more he looked down 
that naked wall. "There was nothing we had forgotten 
in the room, was there, that he could have used? " 

And then to Jeremy, the slow-witted, came the solution. 
"Begging your pardon. Sir," he said, touching him on the 
arm, "seems to me he've gone up, not down. Put your 
head out again. Sir, and you'll see as he cmild have got up, 
being active like, and hard put to it." 

Hervey looked. Yes, by standing outside on the win¬ 
dow ledge a man of moderate height could certainly man¬ 
age to grasp the leaden rain gutter which ran along just 
under the roof. But he would have to be very athletic—or 
desperate—to pull himself up by that alone; added to 
which a gutter of that sort was not so firmly fixed in place 
as designedly to carry such a weight. And this one had 
been up for many years. 

"Good God!" said Hervey, staring up at it, and then 
down at the spikes. How could he have trusted himself 
to so horribly inadequate a support with those points wait¬ 
ing down below all the time! 

^ "No doubt he helped hisself a bit by the comer here. 
Sir, where the wall juts out," proceeded Jeremy, developing 
his discovery. "Got his feet against it, or his knees. A 
nasty climb, though. Sir—makes your blood turn, in a 
manner o' speaking—and his weight has brought away the 
gutter a little. Lucky for him it didn't break loose alto¬ 
gether." 

"Yes," assented his master shortly. He had had enough 
of that gutter, and straightway abandoned the contem¬ 
plation of it. "But when once he was on the roof," he 
continued, "he would find no great difficulty, I imagine, in 
climbing down the other side of the house, into the garden, 
because of the ivy." 

"‘Child's play to this, Sir," pronounced Jeremy, bringing 
his head in again. "‘But, for all we know, he'm on the 
roof still." 

"I doubt it," said Captain Barrington. "But I suppose 


THE CRUISE OF THE KESTREL 221 

we had better make sure. We will not, however, take his 
route there.'' 

They emerged, indeed, in a more prosaic manner by the 
trapdoor in the attic provided for the purpose, and, as 
Hervey had expected, found neither the fugitive nor any 
traces of his passage. Scanning the view of the river and 
the coimtryside afforded by their present elevation, John 
Jeremy gave vent to a wonder as to where the ‘^wildcat" 
was ‘"tu" now, and his master wondered also. Not far 
away, probably; he would never get any distance in that 
scanty and tom attire and with no money. He was bound 
to be recaptured sooner or later, for all that he had risked, 
a horrible death to win clear of Fairhaven. 

And now it was his business to go out and, by setting the 
hounds on his trail, carry out last night's threats and com¬ 
plete his own revenge. 

But the minutes went by, and still Captain Bamngton 
stood there on the roof with his hands behind his back. For 
over the grinning visions which had been so hot in his brain 
last night, the vision of the ^‘Senora" and her mythical 
love and desertion (the Senora he had so decorously and 
absurdly left in the garden); of the “sister" and her even 
more successful onslaught on his sympathy and credulity— 
memories which made him grind his teeth over his own 
^libility—^there was scored palimpsest-wise another pic¬ 
ture, of a dazed figure with a bleeding mouth caught in Jer¬ 
emy's unsparing hold. Surely, in that savage hour upstairs, 
he had settled his account with the culprit! 

Yes, the business of informing was too distastefm. Let 
the Government find and catch its lost prize if it liked. 
After that crazy climb he was not going to join in the himt. 
The boy was too game. . . . Yet it must be confessed 

that to this volte-jface of Hervey Barrington's there con¬ 
tributed also—since the motives for any resolve are seldom 
unmixed—a faint dislike to owning that his prisoner had 
given him the slip, and an absolute horror of having to 
acknowledge that he himself had, in the first instance, been 
completely duped as to that prisoner's sex. For now he 
saw (and wondered at his tardy perception of it) that this 
fact would certainly have to be revealed, or how should he 
account for the Frenchman's presence in his house at all? 


222 


‘^MR. ROWL” 


He turned quickly round. ''Jeremy/^ he said in his 
quarterdeck voice, ''as long as an escaped French prisoner 
was under my roof it was my duty to hand him over to the 
authorities, and I should have done it this morning. But, 
all things considered, I do not intend to inform them that 
he has been here and has escaped. His whereabouts 
will be discovered quite soon enough. So, not a word to 
any one outside the house about last night's business. I 
do not choose to be the subject of idle gossip. Is that 
clear?" 

"Ay, ay. Sir," replied John Jeremy, and saluted him 
among the chimney pots. "Am I to tell Hannah the same. 
Sir?" 

"I will see Mrs. Jeremy myself on the matter," replied 
his master, walking towards the trapdoor. 

"Curious thing. Sir," observed Jeremy half shyly, rub¬ 
bing a hand up and down his trousers, "but she won't, in a 
manner o' speaking, believe me when I say the—the young 
lady which she saw was a young man." 

"Won't she? " returned Hervey rather grimly. " We will 
have her up, then, and show her the climb he did." 

"Me taking down them curtains has upset her proper," 
observed Hannah's spouse. "I doubt if she'll take much 
account of any climb till they'm back in their places 
again. . . . Let me go first and hold the ladder. Sir." 

And as Captain Barrington had decreed, so it was at 
Fairhaven. Mrs. Jeremy, indeed, when she had received 
her orders, remarked (but not to their giver) that she had 
no desire to gossip about a French hussy having been 
brought after dark into the house, and Miss Lavinia, with 
her own accusing conscience, was only too delighted to obey 
the order to hold her tongue, though it was more than 
probable that the precaution would be useless. 

But no news of the fugitive came to Fairhaven, and 
Hervey, though he kept his ears open in Stowey that after¬ 
noon (he could not, naturally, put any questions) heard 
nothing. He had no idea in what direction the young man 
had gone in his forlorn endeavour; evidently not across the 
river, or he would surely have taken the skiff, of whose 
convenient presence he was, as Hervey remembered, very 


THE CRUISE OF KEBTREL 


223 


well aware. It was Miss Lavinia who made the only dis¬ 
covery worth mention—and even that led nowhere—^which 
was, that a large stem of ivy had been tom away from the 
wall of the house about ten feet from the ground on the 
garden front; and it seemed quite probable that this minor 
catastrophe marked the path of the ''wildcat,'' and that 
he himself had accompanied the ivy, and added a more or 
less severe fall—though upon grass—to his other dis¬ 
abilities. 

Miss Barrington started for Exeter next morning, and 
Hervey, left alone once more, found his mind dwelling, 
with ever less appreciation of his own part in it, on that 
scene in the spare bedroom. Yes, he had behaved like a 
bmte. He did not blame himself for having detained an 
escaping enemy, nor for having deprived him of his only 
means of further flight, his money . . . though it was 
deuced awkward to know what he was going to do with it 
now that he had it, since he had resolved not to inform the 
authorities of the owner's presence and escape. (Lavinia 
had suggested the poor-box; but that did not seem quite 
the right destination for someone else's banknotes.) The 
letters taken from the captive, as a cursory glance had 
shown, were from an Englishwoman. Hervey did not read 
them. If the young man were recaptured, and he got to 
know of it, he would try to return them to him; perhaps his 
money too. He knew his name—or at least the name he 
went by; the letters bore it also. 

But as to believing his story of injured innocence— 
no! The boy was too clever, too good an actor . . . 

but he did wish that he had not given him that unnecessary 
and ferocious blow. A spectator would have said that it 
was thoroughly justifled, and dealt in.self-defence. Hervey 
knew that it was neither, and was aware of what exactly 
had inspired it, though he did not wish to name the feeling. 
If only he had not been so blind at the outset, had drawn 
the right conclusions from what now seemed so obvious: 
the height, unusual in a woman; the voice, too deep; the 
reluctance to attract attention. At bay upstairs, in his 
proper attire, the masquerader had looked so much younger 
and slighter—and so much more spent. That accusing pic¬ 
ture was before him again; he turned his gaze away from it. 


^^MR. ROWL^^ 


224 

Late in the afternoon, having succeeded in banishing the 
scene and its protagonist from the surface at least of his 
mind, and seeing the prospect of a fine evening, he decided 
to go for a sail. 

The Kestrel paid off slowly, under rnainsail and jib, her 
owner at the helm, but very soon Fairhaven was left be¬ 
hind, and the first river-huddled houses of Stowey were 
slipping past; old dwellings which looked as if they had 
sprung up by natural growth on their piles or ancient tide- 
greened walls. 

'‘Not many craft in the river to-day,” murmured Captain 
Barrington. 

“I see a Brixham trawler over there,” grumbled his 
satellite. “ What be doing here, I wonder? ” 

“Come to sell fish, probably.” 

“Stowey men can catch their own fish, I rackon,” replied 
Jeremy indignantly. “And look at the berth he's put his- 
self in!” 

Hervey smiled. “ I see a vessel ahead which has chosen a 
worse. When did that schooner run ashore on the Whales- 
back?” 

For, half a mile or so farther down the river, on the 
invisible shoal which was the bane of Stowey harbour, 
lay a large schooner. Her tilted hull and masts gave her 
an odd effect of floating at an angle. But Captain Barring¬ 
ton was aware that she was not floating. 

“ Grounded two days ago. Sir, in the neap. Have to wait 
for the next spring tide to fetch her off. Dunno where 
she hail from. Her crew's all gone ashore. . . . Top¬ 
sail now. Sir?” 

“Not yet,” replied his master, though they were past the 
harbour, where Stowey river widened to the dignity of an 
estuary before it gave itself to the sea, and here he com¬ 
monly shook out the KestreVs extra plumage. But this 
evening he was content to slip gently along with what sail 
she was caipring, his eyes fixed ahead on the mild unrest of 
the bar, thinking of that calamity of his own which was 
woven in such unfading colours on the arras of his mind. 
It needed but a touch to set the tapestry swaying, and the 
whole scene would spring to life again. And the stranded 
schooner there in the simlight had done it, though it was an 


THE CRUISE OF THE KESTREL 


225 


uncharted rock, not a sandbank, which had sunk H. M. S. 
Suffolk that dark October night off the Scillies. The court- 
martial had acquitted her captain, who was indeed per¬ 
fectly blameless, condemnation being pretty equally di¬ 
vided between a faulty chart and the sailing-master . . . 
but Hervey Barrington never got another ship. Was it 
likely—a man who had lost a 74? And very shortly 
afterwards in 1811 came the flimsy pretext on which he, 
at thirty-nine, experienced, competent, and ambitious, 
was put on half-pay ... in war-time. He might be 
blameless—^but he had lost a 74. 

And yet that voice had said the other night with such 
indignant scorn, “You do not know what it is to suffer in¬ 
justice—^you are of those who dispense it!” Did he not! 
Why else was he here now, idly steering this little craft, 
all that was left him to command. . . . 

He roused himself from his bitter and useless contempla¬ 
tion. John Jeremy, sitting sideways on the weather coam¬ 
ing, was contemplating him, and Hervey’s reserve fretted 
even under his gaze. 

“That schooner looks berthed for a month,” he observed 
in a matter-of-fact tone, gazing at her as they approached 
the sandbank.^ Broken water indicated the shallow, but 
no sand was visible. “We will go to larboard of old Whales- 
back for a change.” (From habit he nearly always took 
the right-hand channel.) “Really I hardly know this side 
of the river. Who has got old John Wood’s farm now— 
that is it, is it not?” he asked, pointing over the dancing 
water at the solitary-standing farmhouse, about a furlong 
from the edge of the river, which they were just leaving 
behind them. 

“Ay, Sir, it is. A nasty, low-lived, ill-conditioned set 
there now, from all I hears—three brothers of the name 
of Willis. Foreigners they be,” said Jeremy, meaning, of 
course, not true Devon men. “Will you have top-sail up 
now. Sir?” 

“In a moment. The ‘foreigners’ seem excited about 
something,” observed Hervey, craning his neck to look 
behind him, as a sudden outburst of shouts and yells came 
clearly over the intervening quarter mile or so of water. 

“Likely their bees has swarmed on one of ’em,” sug- 


226 


MR. ROWL” 


gested Jeremy unemotionally. Standing amidships he gazed 
back, shading his eyes with his homy palms. “No, they’m 
chasing one of the hands—^wi’ pitchforks tu. He’m run¬ 
ning for dear life—^making for the river. Do'ee look. Sir!’' 

Hervey brought the Kestrel farther into the wind and 
let her hang, twisting himself to see. Something of an 
agitating nature was certainly taking place at the abode 
of the brothers Willis. Eight or ten men, with a woman 
or two among them, had suddenly poured themselves out in 
a stream from behind the previously quiet farmhouse, shout¬ 
ing, yelling, and, most of them, brandishing either a stick, 
a hoe, or, as Jeremy had discerned, the deadly pitchfork. 
Hervey’s eye caught the pursuers first, and then was 
aware of the pursued, a slender, scantily clad figure which, 
with only a few yards’ advantage of the foremost, was 
mnning like a deer for the water. 

Captain Barrington gave vent to an exclamation. His 
mouth tightened. “Stand by, Jeremy; I’m going about.” 

The KestreVs already wavering sail flapped, she rolled, 
hesitated, and then obeyed and began to make for the 
scene of the drama. Even as she came about, the fleeing 
figure had reached the water’s edge, and, stumbling a little, 
waded in waist-deep and then struck out vigorously. A 
redoubled shout of rage went up from the pursuers, and 
one, with a yell, hurled his pitchfork at the swimmer. 
The rest contented themselves with imprecations and 
stones from the foreshore. Hervey Barrington, standing 
up at the helm, was shouting too, “Stop that, you brutes— 
stop it, I say!” but his voice, even if it carried to the ears 
of the infuriated group at the water’s edge, had no effect. 

Meanwhile the swimmer, his head a dark object amid 
the splashes of the fusillade of stones, none of which, 
luckily, seemed to be reaching their mark, forged slowly 
on toward midstream, using the overarm stroke, but always 
with the same arm. Although he was not swimming 
quickly he was drawing away from the Kestrel as well as 
from the shore and Hervey’s eyes were so keenly fixed on 
that head and arm as not to notice that the wind had fallen 
into one of those sudden little lulls common in a harbour, 
and that the cutter was now making very little headway 
indeed. 


THE CRUISE OF THE KESTREL 


227 


“He’s swimming very oddly,” said Captain Barrington 
aloud. “I wonder if those devils did get a pitchfork into 
him after all. . . . And where is he making for?— 

He’ll never get over to the other side. If he has any wits 
left he’ll make for the stranded schooner—ah, I suppose 
he doesn’t know there’s no one on board. . . . Damn 

it, the wind’s dropped!” 

Jeremy, already conscious of this fact, brought his gaze 
back from the peak of the mainsail. “Is it him. Sir— 
the Frenchy?” 

“Of course it is. We will pick him up, if we can. Top¬ 
sail, Jeremy, as quick as possible.” 

But, even in the short time it took to set the extra sail 
it began to seem a little doubtful if they would be able to 
accomplish this^ design. Hervey, hauling on the topsail 
halyards, knew instinctively that the swimmer, now almost 
in mid-stream, was in difficulties. He cursed himself for 
having stood staring instead of getting the rest of the can¬ 
vas on sooner. However, in a moment or two the Kestrel 
responded to the new impetus, and began to cut through 
the water as if she knew what was required of her and re¬ 
joiced to do it. But for all that the outgoing tide (not 
his own efforts now) was sweeping her quarry away from her 
and round the other side of the Whalesback. Hervey could 
see that he had abandoned the effort of swimming, and, de¬ 
voting his energies merely to keeping afloat, had thrown 
himself on to his back. Shouts came from the disappointed 
group on shore as, midway between them and the shoal, 
the Kestrel shot past on the now fresher breeze, but Hervey 
did not even turn his head. “Prisoner . . . French 

prisoner!’ ’ came to his ears. ‘‘ Let them bawl! ” he thought 
disgustedly. 

But from where he stood at the tiller the French prisoner 
was no longer visible; he had disappeared entirely round the 
northern point of the shoal. 

Hervey swore. But next moment the Kestrel also was 
past the point, and he looked over his left shoulder. No, 
the young man was still afloat, but struggling. “Ready, 
Jeremy!” 

Like a bird checking in flight the Kestrel went about, 
rounded the bubbling, sucking sand, and was chasing up the 


228 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


deep water the other side. “Hold on one moment more!'* 
shouted Hervey to the half-swimmer, half-flotsam a few 
yards ahead on his starboard bow. The topsail was already 
down, the jib coming in under Jeremy's skilled hands; 
in another second or two the mainsail itself came down with 
a run. 

Even then, as was almost inevitable, they overshot him 
a little, but he had enough wits left in him to understand 
what was happening, and as the big boat glided by he made 
an effort to fight her wash and get alongside. Leaning 
over, Hervey threw him a rope, and, rather to his surprise, 
the yoimg man compassed a few painful strokes and seized 
it as it trailed past him. 

“Excellent!" shouted Hervey. “Hold tight now!" and 
he began to haul in. The KestreVs way was spending it¬ 
self; in another moment or two she would be stationary, 
except for the tide. “And only just in time, too," thought 
Captain Barrington, as hand over hand he pulled in the 
rope, not very fast for fear of jerking it out of the hold 
whose only strength lay probably in its desperation—and 
which was, he saw, a one-handed hold to boot. “No, I 
don't think you need go overboard, Jeremy," for that 
mariner already had his coat off. “Hold on to the slack 
of this so that I can use both my hands to get him in. We 
must be careful that we don't overset in doing it. Here we 
are!" 

He was alongside, yes; sodden, and panting, and ex¬ 
hausted almost to the point of unconsciousness. But as 
Hervey leant over the side to clutch him the half-closed 
eyes under the plastered, dripping hair, opening, met his, 
and into them shot the next instant such a look of horror 
and aversion as turned Hervey cold. 

“You . . . you, . . . No!’' gasped Raoul des 
Sablieres, loosed his frantic grip of the rope, threw up his 
arms . . . and went instantly under. 

Half-stimned though he was with the shock of it, Hervey 
made a quick mechanical grab at the disappearing body, 
but he could not reach. The next second a resounding 
splash announced that John Jeremy, for once not waiting 
for orders, had entered the estuary, and John Jeremy swam 
like a porpoise. 


THE CRUISE OF THE KESTREL 


229 


“Wait till you see where he comes up,” said Hervey 
quietly. He was very pale. In another moment some¬ 
thing reappeared a few yards away, something that now had 
no more volition of its own than a drifting spar. With 
half a dozen powerful strokes Jeremy reached and secured it, 
and was shortly treading water alongside, holding the inert 
head and shoulders out of the water, while the rest of the lax 
body showed a disposition to be sucked under the cutter's 
keel. 

“Will this—^whatever it is—^hold, I wonder?” muttered 
Hervey, twisting one hand into something white, fastened 
across the almost bare breast like a scarf. “Yes, I think 
so. . . . Now—one, two, three!” A heave, a jerk, 
a grab at the trailing legs, a certain tilting and rocking on 
the KestreVs part, a moment's imcertainty and balancing on 
the gunwale, and Captain Barrington had got his prisoner 
back again. 


CHAPTER VI 

REVENGE AND HERVEY BARRINGTON 

^ The consciousness that his sentiments were just and his intention 
kind was scarcely sufficient to support him.— Rasselas, chap. xvii. 

By the time that John Jeremy had scrambled on board 
once more, shaken himself like a huge Newfoundland, and 
come thudding aft, his master was no longer occupied in 
treating the rescued man as a case of drowning, but was 
listening to his heart. 

''I am sure he cannot have swallowed much water in the • 
short time he was under,'" he observed, looking up at his 
henchman. "‘He has only collapsed from exhaustion, I 
think. All the same . . He glanced down again 
at his recovered captive. 

The young Frenchman was indeed a sony spectacle as 
he lay there unconscious, quietly drenching the bottom 
boards to an extent which was surprising in view of the small 
amount of clothing left on him by this time. He had his 
breeches—^and those tom at one knee—portions of his 
shirt clinging to him, the scarf-like object by which Hervey 
had hauled him in, and absolutely nothing else, for shoes and 
stockings alike were gone from his cut and bleeding feet. 
And when Hervey slipped his hand under the wet, heavy 
head a diluted little crimson trickle began to course over 
his own wrist, and he saw that a stone had stmck the swim¬ 
mer near the right ear, though the damage done did not ap¬ 
pear to be serious. 

''Yes, the most important thing, I fancy, is to keep him 
warm," he went on, lifting his prize a little. "Pm afraid 
there's no brandy on board, worse luck. Get that old 
boat cloak of mine from the locker forward; the spare jib 
too would not come amiss." And he began stripping off 
the soaked rags of shirt, discovering in the puzzling scarf, 
230 


REVENGE AND HERVEY BARRINGTON 231 


when he unknotted it, a close resemblance to one of his 
own huckaback towels. Another discovery was the greatly 
swollen and discoloured state of one of the limp wrists— 
the result of more rough handling, perhaps . . . like 

the big bruise on one shin and that disfiguring cut on 
the lip which showed up so vividly, so reproachfully, on the 
surrounding pallor. (And those marks had not been the 
work of an excited rabble who scarcely knew what they 
were doing.) 

'' I take it. Sir,'' observed Jeremy, handing him the boat 
cloak, ''that you don't intend giving him up to them 
Willises?" 

" I do not," replied his master shortly. He finished wrap¬ 
ping up his capture,. rose to his feet, and looked across to 
the other shore to see if the individuals in question were 
still watching and still expectant—to find, somewhat to his 
astonishment, that he could not see the shore and farmhouse 
at all. The Kestrel was so near the shoal that the bulk of 
the careened schooner entirely blotted them out. 

At this discovery a very unexpected idea came to Hervey 
Barrington, and he demanded of Jeremy whether at the 
actual moment of getting the Frenchman aboard they had 
been screened by the schooner as they were now. He could 
not himself tell, since his back had been towards her all the 
time. 

"Ay, Sir," replied that mariner, "we was. I happened 
to notice particular, and she were nicely to lee of us. Them 
Willises over there couldn't have seen a thing.—Don't 
you want 'em even to know. Sir, in a manner o' speaking, 
as we pulled him out?" 

"No, in a manner of speaking, I don't," returned Hervey, 
compressing his lips and doing some very rapid thinking. 
He unfolded the spare jib and spread it completely over 
the motionless figure at his feet. "I shall keep the affair 
in my own hands now. Get the sails up, and we will stand 
over to the other side—^within hailing distance, that is— 
and tell those savages that the French prisoner sank before 
we could get to him—sank under our very eyes and did not 
come up again, and that as the tide is running out fast it is 
not likely that his body will ever be recovered. Do you 
understand?" 


232 


‘^MR. ROWL” 


A slow, appreciative grin spread over his myrmidon's 
broad countenance. ^'Lordloveyou, Sir, yes. And they'll 
believe you when you sings out who you is. And then 
. . . shall we put back home?" 

‘‘It's what I should like to do," replied his master, 
glancing down at the sailcloth, which looked rather like a 
pall, “but it would seem rather too suspicious if we did, 
since we were so plainly standing out to sea before, and 
only came about to find out what was going on. No, we 
will beat out to sea for a little while, and then, when the 
light has faded somewhat, bring the Frenchman in and get 
him to bed. To-morrow will be plenty of time to tell Sie 
constable about him." 

And Captain Barrington's bold lie, shouted in an au¬ 
thoritative voice to the still expectant Willises and their 
retinue from a safe distance, was evidently believed with¬ 
out hesitation, to judge from the angry dejection which 
it caused. “No doubt they were after the ten guineas 
reward, the ruffians!" thought Hervey Barrington to him¬ 
self, as the Kestrel once more swung seaward—and in- 
C 9 ntinently felt his own cheeks bum. Two nights ago he 
himself had been taunted with having the same ignoble 
aim. 

When they were well away from the shore he stooped 
and turned back the jib. Provided they kept him warm, 
the unavoidable delay in getting him into a bed would surely 
not do the fugitive much harm, for he was young enough 
to fling off the effects of exhaustion, and he should have 
the best of care that night. But when the sail was with¬ 
drawn Hervey was uncomfortably startled by the aspect of 
the face at his feet, so desperately white and pinched against 
the folds of the boat cloak.—And, by Gad, what a fool he 
was!—there was some brandy in the forward locker, some 
that had been there for a long time. Even as he thought of 
this and determined to get it there was a movement in 
the prostrate figure, the closed eyes half opened, the lips 
said something in French, and an arm extricated itself from 
the boat cloak. 

“Come and take the tiller, Jeremy," called Captain Bar- 
nngton, “and keep an eye on him. He's coming to." And 


REVENGE AND HERVEY BARRINGTON 233 


he himself went quickly forward to the little cuddy and 
hunted for the brandy bottle. 

He had just laid his hand on it when he was aware of a 
sudden commotion in the stem, a shout from Jeremy, 
followed by a cry, a sort of sob of anguish, and coming 
hastily out he saw what looked like a tussle going on. 
Amazed and angry he hurried aft. But whatever had been 
happening was over when he got there, and Raoul des 
Sablieres, freed entirely from the boat cloak, now lay in a 
huddled heap at Jeremy’s feet. 

‘'What on earth have you been doing to him?” de¬ 
manded Hervey sternly, stooping over the thin, bare 
shoulders. 

“Nothing, Sir, but pull him back,” replied Jeremy earn¬ 
estly. “He come to, like, and look round, and seem to 
see where he is, and then I think he sees you, Sir, and he 
gives hisself one heave and gets hisself half over the gun¬ 
wale before I knows what he is about. So I ketches hold 
of the nearest bit of him I can grab and pulls him back— 
what else was I to do. Sir?—and when I lays hold of him 
he sings out and tumbles back like that. That’s all I did, 
upon my oath. Captain Barrington. He’m light-headed, 
sure, to try to throw hisself overboard after all your trouble, 
Sir!” 

Light-headed? If so, his resolve to fling away his life 
rather than return to the prison ship was all the mpre in¬ 
nately steely. This was the second—^no, the third at¬ 
tempt. Decidedly it had been no figure of speech, that 
threat. . . . Hervey was half afraid to touch him now, 
but—^mercifully, perhaps—^Jeremy’s rough method of sal¬ 
vation (no doubt he had unwittingly caught him by the 
damaged wrist) had thrown the captive back into semi¬ 
consciousness. He evidently did not know who it was 
that wrapped him up again, first putting his own coat on 
him this time; but the pain of having his injured arm slipped, 
however carefully, into the sleeve, made him catch his 
breath sharply. 

Laisse-moi, laisse-moi, tu me fais mal!” he said indis¬ 
tinctly and without opening his eyes. 

Hervey buttoned the coat over hm and put the brandy 
to his lips. “Just drink this,” he said persuasively. 


234 


^^MR. ROWL'^ 


*'Je voudrais Hre tranquille/' murmured the young man. 
''Dormir , . His voice died away. He could swal¬ 
low, however, and Heryey got some brandy down his throat 
and rearranged the sail under his head. Good God, what 
a wreck the boy looked! Two days had done it—^two days 
without food, no^ doubt (since he had no money) without 
shelter, almost without clothes. And was he to be handed 
over to justice to-morrow in this condition, thrown into 
the lock-up at Stowey in the company of drunken and 
quarrelsome mariners and masterless men? 

Hervey rose from his knees and sat down by Jeremy 
in the stem-sheets, and in a low voice bade him listen to 
his instmctions. As he had so successfully drowned the 
fugitive he proposed to keep him drowned a little longer. 
Bates, the constable, would be only too glad that Captain 
Barrington should look after his lawful charge for a few 
days until the latter recovered from his immersion and ex¬ 
posure; he would see Bates to-morrow and make that right 
with him. The rabble at the waterside farm would be dis¬ 
persed by now; if not, he must mn the risk of their discover¬ 
ing his trick. “So we will stand in at once, Jeremy,'’ he 
concluded, “and get home as soon as possible, though I 
am afraid, by the way the wind has dropped in the last 
few minutes, that we shall not make Fairhaven very 
quickly.” 

He was right. By the time they had worn ship and gone 
five minutes or so, at no great speed, upon their home¬ 
ward tack, the breeze had still further died down, and they 
were barely moving over the water. And, as Hervey now 
became aware, shivers were running over the figure at his 
feet, half conscious or asleep though it seemed to be. 
There was nothing further that he could wrap round him 
now. 

“We cannot waste time like this,” he said in an under¬ 
tone to Jeremy. “Wemust get out the sweeps and pull 
in.” 

A look of dismay crossed that individual's cormtenance. 
“Don't 'ee remember. Sir, as I took 'em by your orders 
last week to have 'em repaired, and 'tain't done yet?” 

“So you did,” said Hervey. “What a misfortune!” He 
bit his lip. 


REVENGE AND HERVEY BARRINGTON 235 


“We’m making some headway, Sir,” said the steers¬ 
man consolingly, '‘and likely when sun sets we’ll get a 
breeze.” 

“Yes,” said Hervey, “but meanwhile . . .” After a 
second’s hesitation he knelt down, lifted Raoul des Sabli- 
eres into his arms, and sat down on the bottom boards with 
him across his knees, holding him close to see if the contact 
would warm him, and praying that he would not open his 
eyes and recognize him. 

His prayer was heard. After a while, too, the young man 
ceased to shiver; he even buried his face in silence against 
his enemy’s shoulder. And so the Kestrel dawdled home¬ 
wards under the hues of coming sunset, and Hervey sat with 
his victim’s damp head against his breast, and wished his 
work undone, despite a mocking voice that whispered to 
him: “You are grown deuced squeamish all of a sudden!” 
Yes, that might be; but he had been deuced brutal first 
. . . and all because he had been made to feel ridicu¬ 
lous. That did not seem to matter now . . . and, 

since the masquerader had paid dearly enough for his 
mumming, and he himself turned with so much disgust, to¬ 
day, from his own figure as memory showed it to him, he 
resolved, looking down on that brine-tangled hair, that he 
would write to the Transport Office, and try to get the 
boy’s case investigated; for it seemed to him that behind 
the two desperate attempts of the last hour to be done with 
life there did really, perhaps, lie some great injustice suf¬ 
fered. And if that were so, the authorities might be per¬ 
suaded to order him back to the lesser hardships of a land 
prison. 

1 Truly Hervey Barrington had done with revenge. But 
his revenge had not yet done with him. 

By this time his position had become somewhat cramped; 
but when he shifted it a little the head on his breast moved 
too. 

“Are we nearly there?” suddenly asked its owner, in a 
dreamy voice. And as Hervey hesitated, not knowing 
what to reply, Raoul went on: “Surely we are off the coast 
of France now ... we have been so long at sea. 
Let me look!” and he made an effort to raise himself. 

“No, no, lie still!” said Hervey, involuntarily tightening 


236 


‘^MR. ROWL” 


his grasp. ‘‘All is well; you will soon be . . . where 
you wish.” (“God forgive me,” he added mentally.) 

Raoul gave a long sigh of contentment and fell back 
again. But after a moment he went on, rather less clearly, 
“You are very good to me, to take me after all, now that 
I have no money. But I will pay you somehow, never fear! 
A man at some place ... I forget . . . two 

men . . . they took it all away. . , . TienSy it is 

strange,” he added reminiscently, “but when I swam out 
to you I thought I saw his face in the boat. . . . Am 
I ill that you hold me like this?” 

“You had a long swim,” replied Hervey, rather hoarsely, 
transfixed by the fear that he would look up and recognize 
him. . . . Yet what other course was open to him? 
He could not have left the fugitive to drown, and the lie 
which had been told him was for his very lifers sake. But 
somehow Hervey wished it had been any other lie. 

Raoul roamed on, less coherently still. “Yes, I swam 
twice. And my wrist ... it hurt too much . . . 

I think it is broken ... I fell ... a long time 
ago, climbing somewhere . . . there was ivy. Mais 
que m/importe? Maman me le guerira” 

And with these words he relapsed into silence again. 
Hervey, looking cautiously down, saw with relief that his 
,eyes were shut once more; saw too, with a pang to which he 
could not have put a name, that there was a smile on the 
disfigured mouth. It would be his task to break that 
dream. 

The trend of this conversation had by now penetrated 
the mind of John Jeremy, and, bending forward to his 
masters ear, he enquired if he had rightly apprehended that 
the Frenchy” imagined the Kestrel was taking him to 
France? And Hervey, corroborating this deduction, im¬ 
pressed on his henchman the distasteful necessity of keeping 
up this delusion lest they should have trouble again with 
the fugitive, a course which Jeremy cordially approved, for, 
as he muttered, the lad was a proper wildcat. 

The afterhues of sunset had changed from rose to saffron, 
from ^ffron to palest green, and the fair star was trembling 
oyer the last bank of cloud in the west, before their destina¬ 
tion came in sight. The “wildcat” lay very quiet in 


REVENGE AND HERVEY BARRINGTON 237 

Hervey's hold, only babbling now and then in his own 
tongue of France and of his mother, and occasionally of 
someone called Lenepveu and the port of Morlaix, but 
with so much incoherence that it was plain he was half 
light-headed; so that it might be hoped he would not yet 
recognize the trick which, out of sheer mercy, was being 
played on him. 

But if he did, how on earth should they persuade him to 
enter the skiff and be landed? He would certainly jump 
into the river first, and another immersion would probably 
finish him off. Hervey cudgelled his brains over this prob¬ 
lem, whose only solution seemed to lie in bringing the 
Kestrel right in to the garden steps. He had occasionally 
done this at high water, though he had all a sailor's dislike 
of scraped paint, but it was not high water now, or any¬ 
thing like it, though the tide was making by this time. 
He turned his head and consulted Jeremy. 

Yes, Jeremy, after survey, thought it might just be 
possible—^with luck; it was better, he opined, to try it than 
to risk having the skiff upset. Slowly, carefully, therefore 
the Kestrel glided toward the steps, and Hervey, who had 
temporarily laid down the passenger in order to lower the 
sail, bent rather apprehensively over him to rouse him from 
his state of semi-coma. 

''We are going to land you now—but before you go any 
farther you must have a good night's rest in ... in 
the house to which we are taking you." 

*^Nous sommes arrives—on est vraiment en France?” ex¬ 
claimed the young Frenchman joyfully, and he tried to 
sit up in the bottoni of the boat, Hervey hastily moving 
out of his field of vision. But next moment he relapsed 
with an exclamation and put his hand over his eyes. "La 
Me me tourne;fai le vertige.” 

''Shut your eyes then, and trust to me," said Hervey 
quickly. This was an unexpected piece of luck; and it 
was without a twinge that he heard the Kestrel’s keel scrape 
horribly over the rocks at the bottom of the steps. "Now, 
lend a hand, Jeremy!" 

Together they got the half-dazed fugitive over the side 
and up the steps, by which time it was sufficiently apparent 
that he was not only giddy, but quite beyond recognizing 


238 


ROWL^' 


his SOTOundings, as Hervey had feared. Clinging blindly 
to his guide^s arm he followed his instructions with a 
rather uncanny obedience, and though at the top of the 
steps Jeremy relinquished his hold in order to tow the 
bumping Kestrel by means of the skiff to her moorings, 
Hervey had no difficulty in piloting his charge up the garden 
by himself. He chose the grass rather than the path out 
of consideration for the bare and lacerated feet, but indeed 
it was like steering a sleepwalker who neither saw, nor 
felt, nor spoke, but only smiled in his sleep and manifested 
a patient obedience and confidence which cut Hervey to the 
heart. 

At last they were in the hall which had witnessed the 
metamo^hosis of the Spanish girl into the French, and now 
saw a still more startling transformation. But Mrs. Han¬ 
nah Jeremy, who happened to be there as they entered from 
the garden, was not aware of any transformation, for she 
had no idea that in the half-drowned apparition which her 
master was supporting she beheld the memorable visitant 
of the night before last. But she was so startled at what 
she saw that she gave a slight scream. 

‘‘Lord have mercy!'' she ejaculated. What's this— 
who is it?" 

'‘A . . . traveller," replied Hervey, for Raoul's 
problematical benefit. ''But he is ill. Get the spare- 
room bed ready at once—at once, there is not a moment to 
lose. Up with you, and we will follow." 

One more comprehensive glance did Mrs. Jeremy cast 
on the two figures, then she mounted the stairs more 
quickly than Hervey had ever seen her. 

Much more slowly, and with a great deal of assistance, 
Raoul des Sablieres likewise ascended. But on the landing, 
just before the three shallow steps which led up to the 
spare bedroom, even the automatic obedience came at last 
to an end, and but for his captor's encircling arm he would 
have crumpled up and slid to the floor. Hervey thereupon 
lifted him bodily and carried him in his arms over that 
threshold. 

Mrs. Jeremy had not quite finished making the bed, so 
Captain Barrington deposited his burden in the big chair 
and went to utter a hasty word of warning. 


REVENGE AND HERVEY BARRINGTON 239 


‘‘I picked him up out of the river, Mrs. Jeremy; he was 
drowning—had been chased by some brutes with pitch- 
forks. He^s the Frenchman who escaped two nights ago, 
and, being confused in his mind, he thinks I have brought 
him back to France; but he understands English perfectly, 
so be careful what you say.^' 

''Pitchforks . . . drowning . . . mercy on usF' 
exclaimed Mrs. Jeremy; but Hervey had the impression 
that the rest of his admonition had gone like wind over 
her head. As she tucked in the blankets she took a quick 
survey of the pitiful figure trailing in the big chair. ''Lord 
save us—his poor feet! And his mouth—whatever have 
they been doing to him? ... He must have a hot 
drink, and Fll pop a brick into the oven. One moment. 
Sir, while I do that.'' And before Hervey could stop her 
she had whisked out of the room. 

He was so afraid of undoing his successful work that he 
carefully avoided the neighbourhood of the chair and went 
over to the window. But in a very short time he was 
alarmedly aware that the sleepwalker was showing signs 
of returning animation and of conjecture. He had pulled 
himself up a little, and, flushed and coughing, was looking 
round the room. Hervey, guilt-ridden, shrank further into 
his comer. Raoul passed his hand once or twice over 
his eyes, and then, to Captain Barrington's great relief, 
Mrs. Jeremy reappeared with a kettle of hot water in her 
hand, and the young Frenchman fixed his gaze on her. 
Their encounter that night had been so brief that Hervey 
thought it improbable the one-time guest would recognize 
her. 

Very businesslike, Mrs. Jeremy fetched a basin and knelt 
down by the chair. 

"I'm going to bathe these feet of yours, my dear," she 
announced gently, and Raoul, coughing again, lay back and 
let her do it. 

"Is Jeremy in yet?" asked Hervey from behind the chair. 

"Just come in. Sir.—Dear sakes, here's a nasty cut!— 
As I came up there was someone at the front door, and I 
left him to answer it." 

"I hope to goodness-" Hervey was beginning, half 

to himself, when there came a solid Imock at the bedroom 


240 


^‘MR. ROWL” 


door. Obviously Jeremy in person, so his master went out 
on to the landing to see what he wanted. 

'' If you please, Sir, there's a sergeant of marines down¬ 
stairs." 

what!” exclaimed Hervey, thunderstruck. 

‘^Soldiers, Sir, from Plymouth, a sergeant and a couple 
of marines—the sergeant asking to see you at once, along of 
this escaped French prisoner what's drowned, him having 
heard as how you had witnessed the affair, Sir." 

For a second or two Hervey was dumb. A search party 
from Plymouth already! He had never contemplated 
this—a very different business from dealing with the local 
constable. Marines," he repeated slowly. “You did 
not, I hope-" 

But this was one of Jeremy's bright days. “No, Sir," 
he replied complacently. “I says nothing but, 'No doubt 
Cap'n Barrington will see you if you'll step inside.' 'We 
comes from Plymouth,' he says then, 'bin a-looking for 
this prisoner since Tuesday; a most desperate character 
he says escaped from the Ganges prison ship.' And then he 
swears a bit, saving your presence. Sir, because the man's 
drowned, and all their trouble for nothing." 

“Did you corroborate—I mean, did ycm say the man was 
drowned?" asked Hervey quickly. 

“Not I, Sir. And for all the sergeant knows I've bin in 
the garden since morning a-pickin' of cabbages." 

“Where is the sergeant?" asked Hervey, his heart sinking 
lower and lower. 

“ In the hall. Sir. The marines stayed outside. Seemed 
to me it was best to let him in willing-like." 

Hervey nodded. “Yes, you are quite a diplomat," he 
said, but mirthlessly. “ I will go down and see him. You 
did very properly in not committing yourself about the 
drowning, because now I shall have to extricate myself 
somehow from that lie." He mused a moment, his hand on 
the bannisters. “Tell me, Jeremy, do you consider that, 
with the tide running out as it was, it would sound plausible, 
especially to a man who probably doesn't Imow the river- 
mou^, if I said that though the Frenchman sank and I be¬ 
lieved him drowned, I found him shortly afterwards cast up 
alive on the Ledges—^you know where I mean?" 



REVENGE AND HERVEY BARRINGTON 241 

‘‘Why, yes, Cap^n Barrington,” returned Jeremy ad- 
minngly, “and just about where he would have been—like 
the man as was washed overboard from the Falmouth 
barque near the Whalesback last winter. CouldnT say 
as that mightn't well have been. Sir, seeing as I suppose 
you'm got to account for the Frenchy's being in the house, 
and then give him up.” 

“Well, what else can I do?” asked Hervey, more of him¬ 
self than of Jeremy. “What else can I do?—Tell your 
wife in there the bed will not be needed after all; she's 
not to put him into it. But she must find him some 
clothes—some warm clothes—and she had better bandage 
his feet before he leaves.” And with bent head he started 
to go very slowly down the stairs. 

And as he went he felt that he would sooner be going to 
face arrest on his own account. But, instead of that, he 
w;as going to surrender the boy who had lain helpless in 
his arms for the last hour, whom he had not allowed to 
die by the merciful clean death he had chosen, but whom 
he had lured by a heartless trick under his own roof again 
. . . a boy almost dead from exhaustion and ill-usage. 

And yet again, what choice had he? Even if he had not 
worn the King's uniform himself it was felony now to assist 
the escape of a prisoner of war; though indeed it was not 
the very remote prospect of transportation which weighed 
with him, but the certain wreckage of his own deeply 
threatened career. For he had by no means given up hope 
of his restoration to the active list; he had influential 
friends who considered him most unjustly treated, and held 
that the time would certainly come when he would be rein¬ 
stated. It would never come if he followed his instincts 
now; he might as well send in his papers at once. More¬ 
over, personal considerations quite apart, it was his plain 
duty as an Englishman to do what he was going to do. 

Down and down he went, as slowly as an old man. A 
broken enemy, his victim already, enticed into an illusive 
security, and then immediately, in cold blood, handed over 
to . . . what? Pah, it sickened him! 

But perhaps he could at least prevail on the sergeant to 
wait for a couple of days before taking the prisoner off 
—to wait till to-morrow even. The fugitive could not be 


242 


‘‘MR. ROWL^^ 


dragged away to-night; it would be his death warrant. 
Yet he was, technically, still on his feet, and the man would 
be perfectly within his rights in insisting on his removal. 
It depended, then, on the personal character of this sergeant 
of marines whether an appeal to him would be of any use. 

And the moment he set eyes on him Hervey knew that 
it would be of none. 


CHAPTER VII 

‘‘I HAVE THE HONOUR TO REPORT . . 

“Is there such depravity in man as that he should injure another 
without benefit to himself? ”— Rasselas, chap. ix. 

He came forward, saluting with much respect, as Captain 
Barrington descended the last stairs into the hall. It was 
not likely, of course, that he would show anything else to a 
naval officer of Hervey’s rank. But he had a hard, brutal 
mouth, a hard eye. 

“Sorry to trouble you. Sir,'’ he said briskly. “Your 
man has no doubt told you what we’ve come about.” 

“Yes,” said Hervey. There was no use in beating about 
the bush. “This matter of the French prisoner, I under¬ 
stand. How did you come to connect me with it?” 

“Like this. Sir,” responded the sergeant. “Having 
tracked him on Wednesday nearly as far as Stowey—he 
was got up as a girl, cunning young devil—^we lost trace of 
him, owing, I fancy, to an accident to the Tawton coach 
that evening. He seems to have disappeared entirely 
after that—thrown off his woman’s gear, no doubt. And 
we went off on a wild goose chase as far as Widdeford. 
Thinks I then, finding it a false track, my gentleman’s 
perhaps lying low in Stowey or near it all the while, waiting 
his chance of a boat—^no doubt there’s a bit of smuggling 
goes on there. So I brought my party back. But hardly 
had we got back to Stowey before a farm lad comes up to 
me in a hurry and says they’ve got a suspicious character at 
their farm, down by the mouth of the river, on the other 
side; had already come there yesterday evening, when he 
sold his shoes for a meal, and now again, begging for an¬ 
other and offering to work for it. The first time they had 
thought nothing of it, but before he came the second time 
they had heard as there was a prisoner escaped from Ply- 
243 


244 


'^MR. ROWL” 


mouth, and a party after him. So (by what this boy 
says) this time they had locked him up in a bam, all ready 
for us to nab—^thinking the reward as good as in their 
pockets, I reckon. Down the river again we went, Sir, 
and . . . got there too late. My fine fellow had 
taken the alarm, broken out, made for the river, and 
. . . well, I suppose, Captain Barrington, you know 
best in what port of Davy Jones’s locker he’s likely to be 
now. For they told us at the farm that it was you, Sir, in 
your sailing boat, as saw him drown . . . trying to 

pick him up, I daresay. Sir?” 

“Yes,” said Hervey slowly, “I was trying to pick him 
up). But I was . . . too late.” He suddenly per¬ 
ceived that the door from the garden had been left open 
when he had brought in the drowned man not half an horn* 
ago. He went over and shut it. 

“Well, Sir,” continued the marine, “as things are, if the 
young devil had drowned when he swam the Hamoaze on 
Tuesday, as it’s thought he did, it would have saved a deal 
of trouble, besides being a warning to the others. It has 
happened with an escaping prisoner before now,” he added 
explanatorily, “that his dead body has fetched up on a 
mud bank, and a few weeks of him laying there, with only 
the gulls to attend to him-” 

“You don’t mean to say,” broke in Hervey, turning 
round at the door in disgust, “that his body would be left 
there, on purpose!” 

“But when you shoot a pole-cat or a weasel. Sir, you nail 
him up as a warning and don’t think nothing of it!” 

“I imagined we were speaking now of human beings,” 
retorted Captain Barrington freezingly. 

“If you were in command of a prison ship. Sir, you’d 
think different, saving your respect. Stinking vermin, 
that’s what they are. And if I had my way, I’d soon 
stop escaping . . . with the cat o’ nine tails. But 
we aren’t allowed to touch ’em that way, though a good 
honest British tar gets it as soon as look at you. . . . 

Begging your pardon for the freedom. Sir, you being a 
Navy officer!” 

“Oh, there are some things you are not allowed to do to 
the prisoners, then?” enquired Hervey. 


“I HAVE THE HONOUR TO REPORT . . 245 

His tone evidently puzzled the marine. donT quite 
rightly know what you mean, Sir. Short of mutiny, we 
mayn't lay a finger on them. That’s not to say they don’t 
have some pretty stiff punishments among themselves.” 

Hervey was still standing by the door, looking hard at 
the speaker. Yes, this man would no doubt abide by the 
letter of the regulations, but what about his obedience to 
their spirit when he had the '‘cunning young devil,” as he 
had called him, in his hands? No superior officer, and a 
sick and injured prisoner against whom he was already in¬ 
censed! There was opportunity for a good deal between 
here and Plymouth. 

“What is it you want me to do?” he asked—anything’ 
to gain time to think. 

And the sergeant of marines replied promptly and as it 
were ingratiatingly: “If you would be so good. Sir, as to 
give me an account of what happened down the river, and 
perhaps a bit of paper—an affidavit, like—then when I 
get back to Plymouth there’ll be no suggesting that we 
gave up when we might have got him if we had gone on. 
Because when a man’s dead he’s dead, and if it’s by drown¬ 
ing no one can say the body must be produced, and I 
imderstand the tide was running out strong. So if you were 
to write it down. Sir, the captain of the Ganges could make 
his report to the Transport Office, your evidence being 
quite sufficient for him, particularly as he is only of lieuten¬ 
ant’s rank.” 

“I see,” said Hervey. All unprepared, he stood face to 
face with the gravest decision of his life. This man, how¬ 
ever disappointed he might be, had evidently no shadow 
of doubt as to his informant’s veracity, and they would take 
his word as unquestioningly at Plymouth, and—yes, in 
London too, despite the mark against his name. He 
stood in no immediate danger if he lied. It was when 
the truth came out afterwards—for it would be almost a 
miracle if it did not—^that his ruin would be complete. 
Well, he had only to say, with a little forced jocularity, 
“After all your trouble. Sergeant, you will be glad to 
learn that your prisoner is not drowned (for though he 
sank before my eyes, I picked him up later) that he is in 
the house at the moment, and that, as my duty to my 


246 ^^MR. ROWL’’ 

King and country bids me, I invite you to go upstairs and 
. . . take him.’' 

The speech arranged, rehearsed itself in Hervey’s brain. 
He saw beforehand the cruel light it would bring into 
those hard, reddened eyes. . . . No, it was physically 

impossible to utter it. Instead he asked, a little hoarsely, 
“How much of my ... of what I saw ... do 
you want in writing?” 

“Oh, very little, Sir,” said the sergeant apologetically. 
“Just a few lines, and your signature, if you please. I’m 
ashamed to trouble you, but if I only take back a verbal 
report, I reckon that the authorities would write to you for 
confirmation of the story; but if I hand in a written one 
you won’t likely be troubled further.” 

“Quite so,” said Hervey drily. “Sit down then, and I 
will report the matter.” 

The pursuer sat down in the very chair occupied by his 
quarry during his successive incarnations two nights ago. 
And Hervey Barrington, seizing a sheet of paper from the 
writing table in the corner, “had the honour” to report on 
the death by drowning on the afternoon of August 13th 
of a French prisoner of war escaped from the Ganges prison 
ship at Plymouth, which death he had witnessed; and 
signed away his good name and his self-respect, asking him¬ 
self all the time why he was doing it, and unable to find any 
answer except that he could not do the other thing. . . . 

“Thank you kindly. Sir,” said the marine, taking the 
paper with a salute and disposing it inside his tunic. '' That 
will be quite enough to show that I have not failed in my 
duty. My men are waiting outside. Good evening. Sir.” 

Feeling no desire to have his health drunk by this man. 
Captain Barrington abstained from giving him a shilling 
for the purpose, and a minute later he and his two sub¬ 
ordinates were marching down the road in the twilight. 
From his doorstep Hervey watched them go, empty- 
handed. . . . No, not empty-handed; he had given 
them, in exchange for the boy upstairs, something very 
costly indeed—^his signature to a lie. 

Coming in again he rang the bell for Jeremy. 

“I have sent the escort away again,” he announced 
curtly, “with a written statement that I saw the prisoner 


I HAVE THE HONOUR TO REPORT . . 247 


drown. I was not disposed to give him up in his present 
condition.'' He took a turn up and down, while the ex¬ 
coxswain was speechless. “You realize, of course, Jeremy, 
what a serious step I have taken; for if it comes out in any 
way that I am concealing the prisoner here, even from the 
most humane motives, I am ruined—utterly." 

“Yessir," said Jeremy, his face taking on profounder 
shades of alarm. “ Oh, Cap'n Barrington, you didn't ought 
to 'a' done it—indeed you didn't!" 

“I loiow that,!' replied his master grimly. “But it is 
done now, and I must abide by it. We must use the great¬ 
est caution that no word of the young man's presence here 
leaks out before we can get rid of him. Of course, if you 
feel that you ought to inform against me-" 

“Cap'n Barrington, Sir, how can 'ee talk like that!" 
ejaculated the good Jeremy, deeply hurt. /‘Me that been 
shipmates wi' you, saving your presence. Sir, since-" 

“No, no, I beg your pardon, Jeremy," said Hervey 
quickly. “ I ought not to have said that—though I am not 
sure whether it is not your duty to lay information, all the 
same. However, if it comes out, you will not incur blame, 
acting as you do under my orders. I must speak to Mrs. 
Jeremy at once, and see that she understands the situation 
and keeps her mouth shut. Is she in the kitchen?" 

“No, Sir. She'm upstairs, terrible took up wi' the young 
man. I see she'm for cosseting him proper." A slight 
smile illuminated the gloom of Jeremy's features. “Shall 
I fetch her down. Sir?" 

“No, I'll go up to her," said Hervey. “ J am glad to hear 
that she has taken to him—he will certainly need care." 

Up he went, and entered the spare bedroom. Not only 
was the fugitive ensconced in bed, contrary to orders, but 
the apartment had somehow taken on the aspect of a sick¬ 
room already. And Mrs. Jeremy, the complete nurse, 
was bending over the dark head on the pillow. 

“Now, my dear," he heard her say, “do'ee lay quiet and 
go to sleep—^you've no call to fidget like that . . . nor 

to cough neither.—Do you want me. Sir?" 

But once out on the landing with her master she gave 
him no opportunity to tell her what it was he required her 
for. 




248 


MR. ROWL” 


*'Vve put him to bed, Sir, knowing that's what you'd 
wish"—Hervey's eyebrows went up, unnoticed—and I've 
taken the liberty of putting on him one of your old night¬ 
shirts. But he's very feverish and restless. Sir, and won't 
touch the good hot milk I have for him—^and yet by the 
body of him he's been more than half starved lately. What 
to do with that wrist of his I don't know, seeing as he can't 
bear a finger laid on it, and yet-" 

''Yes, Mrs. Jeremy," interrupted Hervey, obliged to dam 
the stream, "but I want first to speak to you on another 
aspect of this matter. I have got rid of the soldiers who 
came here after him by repeating—in writing—^my assertion 
that I saw him drown." 

"Well, Sir," returned Mrs. Jeremy easily, "and I'm sure 
that was the best thing to do. I knew you would send 
them away." 

"The deuce you did!" exclaimed Captain Barrington, 
staring at the prophetess. "Do you realize what a very 
grave step-" 

But for the first time in his knowledge of her Mrs. Jeremy 
did not accord him her whole attention while he was speak¬ 
ing. "There's that nasty cough again!" she exclaimed. 
"Excuse me. Sir—I'll be out again in a moment." With 
that she whisked back into the room leaving her employer 
almost gasping. 

"Well!" he thought grimly, "if I can induce her to be¬ 
stow half the care in keeping his presence hidden that she 
is evidently going to lavish on the young gentleman himself, 
I shall be fortunate." He waited, though he hardly ex¬ 
pected her to reappear, but reappear she did, when the 
sound of coughing within had ceased. 

"Look here, Mrs. Jeremy," said Hervey with determina¬ 
tion, "perhaps I have not made it clear to you that this 
young Frenchman is the same as he who got out from this 
room by the window the night before last." 

"Of course, if you say so. Sir," returned Mrs. Jeremy 
with an air of respectful unbelief. "The . . . the per¬ 

son who, I am told, climbed on to the roof?" 

"Yes," reiterated Captain Barrington, "the male person 
who climbed on to the roof, and who, as you see, injured 
his wrist over the business. That person was, and is, an 



“I HAVE THE HONOUR TO REPORT . . .249 


escaped French prisoner from the hulks at Plymouth, and 
as his presence here, which I have tacitly denied, is strictly 
illegal, it must be kept absolutely secret, even more for my 
own sake than for his/' 

was never a gossip. Sir," replied Mrs. Jeremy with 
great dignity, and, her master answering briefly that he was 
aware of it, she suggested that he should come in and have 
another look at the rescued man. 

But that Hervey declined to. do, lest he should be recog¬ 
nized, and the Frenchman try to climb out of the win¬ 
dow again. He had better not enter the room, and only 
hoped the ex-captive would not remember the room itself. 

‘‘Lord, Sir," replied Mrs. Jeremy, “he's beyond that now. 
He has no idea where he is. I'm sure, beyond being thankfiil 
to be in a bed, poor young man. Very feverish he is, 

There was no point in hearing all that again. “Well, do 
your best for him," cut in Hervey hastily. ^ And remem¬ 
ber, not a word about his being here!" With that he re¬ 
tired from the interview. 

A cold and not particularly appetizing supper was served 
to him a little later by Jeremy, whose spouse was evidently 
too much occupied with the new arrival to provide anythmg 
hot. Hervey, however, did not grumble at this absorption; 
he had an absorption of his own, if it came to that. For 
though he sat down afterwards with a book, he could not 
read; he meditated on what, with his eyes open, he had 
done that evening. He sat there a perjured man . . . 

a fool . . . almost a traitor. Yet, at bottom, he was 

quite unrepentant. He knew what he would be feeling like 
if he had done his duty. And somehow he might be able to 
get rid of the fugitive later on without exciting suspicion. 
He took up his book and resolutely read a page. 

And then Mrs. Jeremy came in. 

“If you please. Sir, may Jeremy go at once for Dr. 


“Go for Doctor Hills!" exclaimed Hervey, turning round. 
“No, certainly he may not! You don't grasp the situation 
yet, Mrs. Jeremy—that's evident. If that young man s 
presence gets known in Stowey—don't you understand^.^ 
I thought I had siflficiently explained my delicate position. 


250 


‘‘MR. ROWL” 


“Yes, Sir, and I’m sure I wouldn’t wish you to get into 
trouble, but a doctor he must have.” 

“A doctor he can’t have,” reiterated Hervey. “ He must 
do without one.” And, thinking that this decree sounded 
harsher than he intended, he added: “ You see, if the author¬ 
ities knew that he was here, they would have him off back 
to the hulks in no time. So the precaution is really for his 
own sake.” 

Mrs. Jeremy looked down and pleated her spotless apron, 
a sure (and rare) sign of distress. 

“He’d better even go back to the hulks. Sir, than be 
taken out of the house in a coffin.” And she sniffed. 

“Don’t be absurd, Mrs. Jeremy!” But she had alarmed 
him. “The young man has got a touch of fever, no doubt, 
from the exposure, but a day or two’s care-” 

“It’s more than that. Sir, begging your pardon. It’s 
more like what my own brother died of, after three days— 
begun in just the same way, with a terrible fit of shivering 
(it come on when you was having your supper. Sir) the whole 
bed shaking with it. And now he’s coughing and crying 
out with the pain of it every now and then, and that changed 
already you’d hardly know him. If you can say what to 
do for him without a doctor. Sir, I’m sure I’d be only too 
thankful—^but I don’t know!” 

Hervey put down his book and went upstairs. 

It was quite true. Des Sablieres did look most alarm¬ 
ingly ill, and, in the short time, was extraordinarily changed. 
He lay curled up on his side with a hot flush on one cheek, 
breathing very fast, and his air of lassitude had given place 
to one of intense disquiet. Every now and again he 
was shaken by a short, dry cough, which seemed to give 
him great pain. Mrs. Jeremy went to him. His eyes, 
with their bright, strained glance, followed her as she 
moved. 

“Mamaw, fai tellement mal!” he said, like a sick child. 
*‘Maman -” 

Mrs. Jeremy, bending compassionately over him, took his 
restless hand between her own and stroked it. 

“What does he mean. Sir?” she asked in a whisper. “ Is 
it anything I can do?” 

“You are doing all you can, Mrs. Jeremy,” replied 



‘^I HAVE THE HONOUR TO REPORT . . 251 


Hervey, biting his lip. ‘‘He wants his mother." He 
turned away. “lam going for a doctor." 

“ . . . But not for Dr. Hills, who attends every¬ 
body," he added mentally, as he ran down the stairs. 
“And any doctor’s presence here will have to be accounted 
for somehow ... I have it! I will see if I can dig 
Alexander Touchwood out of his shells and fossils. People 
hpdly realize that he is a doctor, yet I believe that, for all 
his eccentricities, he was very well thought of before he 
gave up his practice. If he will undertake it, nobody would 
think anything of his visiting here." 

“Yes, but you see, Touchwood, I had rather you knew 
nothing, for your own sake," he was repeating a quarter of 
an hour later, in that gentleman’s phenomenally untidy 
study. “Heaven knows that it isn’t that I fear your dis¬ 
cretion. If you’ll only come and look at him and ask no 
questions-" 

“My dear Barrington," said the geologist, shutting up 
Brander’s Fossilia Hantoniensia, “you might give me credit 
for some human qualities. I’m not a fossil myself, if I do 
collect ’em. Curiosity, my dear fellow, curiosity about my 
neighbours’ affairs lodges here"—he thumped his lean 
breast—“just as much as in any old maid. I’ll come, as 
you ask me . . . but I’ll come quicker if you will tell 

me why I am to have my eyes blindfolded, and swear se¬ 
crecy on a skull and crossbones, and write a prescription in 
blood!" 

Half annoyed, Hervey laughed. “ I never made any such 
ridiculous stipulations," he replied. “ I only thought that 
if I were run in for what I am doing-’’ 

“Ha!" exclaimed Mr. Alexander Touchwood in a joyful 
tone, and he rose with alacrity from his crowded table. 
“Just what I was wanting, something to take my thoughts 
off the follies of Werner and the Neptunists in general. I 
should like to be run in with you, Barrington; you’d be so 
dignified over it. Now, out with it; why are we likely to 
share a cell in Newgate?" 

“Have it your own way, then," said Hervey, and gave 
him the particulars of the cruise of the Kestrel and what she 
had brought home from it. The Frenchman’s previous 


252 


MR. ROWL” 


residence under his roof and his method of leaving the latter 
he decided for the moment to suppress. 

Tall, bright-eyed, prematurely wrinkled, Mr. Touchwood 
listened with attention. "^To put a name to your crime, it 
sounds more like body-snatching than anything else. And 
you say your good housekeeper is alarmed at the young 
man’s condition? ” 

‘'I am alarmed myself,” confessed Hervey. “But if 
you will be so extremely Mnd as to come and have a look 
at him-” 

“I can’t cure with a look, you know,” returned Mr. 
Touchwood, lifting an old coat off a heap of dusty books 
and tipping some ammonites out of a depressed hat. “ Gad, 
it’s touching, the faith you laymen exhibit! And what if 
I have forgotten all I ever knew?” 

Des Sablieres was worse than when Hervey had left, his 
breathing still quicker. There was a stain, too, on the 
pillow. The opponent of Werner dropped his bantering 
manner the moment his eyes fell on him, and his face became 
grave. 

“This looks as if we had our work cut out,” he observed 
in a low tone. 

At the end of a brief examination he led Hervey to a 
corner of the room. “ I shall stay the night here, Barring¬ 
ton, if you’ll allow me.” He was purely the doctor now. 

^"Is it as serious as that?” asked Hervey, considerably 
taken aback. 

“ It is very serious indeed, my dear Barrington, and won’t 
be a short business either—^if he pulls through, that is. Of 
course he may go off the hooks within the next day or two, 
but we must hope for a fight. Only he doesn’t look . . . 

but you can never tell.” 

“What is it?” asked Hervey unhappily. 

“ Congestion of the lungs—and a bad case of it. It’s only 
just beginning too, poor fellow.” 



CHAPTER VIII 


THE SAPPHIRE NECKLACE AND THE MAJOR 
OP THE BUFFS 

It soon appeared that nothing would be done by authority. . . 

But the Princess would not suffer any means, however improbable, 
to be left untried. . . As one expedient failed, another was suggest¬ 
ed.— Rasselas, chap, xxxiv. 

There were those of his acquaintance who continually en¬ 
larged upon the physical likeness between FYederick William 
Forrest, third Viscount Fulgrave, and Arthur Wellesley, 
Marquis of Wellington; but even the most indulgent had 
not gone so far as to hint at any similarity in character. 
And inde^ it was agreed among them that Lord Fulgrave, 
despite his eagle nose and fine presence, would have made 
but a poor show at commanding even a regiment in the 
Peninsula, since he could not, it was suspected, control one 
young lady, and she his own daughter. 

Juliana would have been very angry had she known of 
these strictures, for she was extremely fond and proud of 
her handsome father, and no one had ever heard her show 
him anything approaching disrespect. But she could not 
avoid knowing that he was far from being as Roman a par¬ 
ent as his nose seemed to denote. She might get from him 
her good looks—^with the merciful exception of the nose in 
question—^but her strong will she drew from the distaff side, 
though her mother had been so long dead that Juliana did 
not recognize the heritage. 

She was sitting now, at half past four in the afternoon, in 
a bow window of their house in Grosvenor Square awaiting 
the return of Lord Fulgrave, who was engaged upon a quest 
for her. Juliana certainly could not accuse him of luke¬ 
warmness over this not yet accomplished desire of hers, 
the release of M. des Sablieres, and often and often she 
253 


254 ‘MR. ROWL^’ 

told herself, and her parent too, what a good father she 
had. 

But if Lord Fulgrave had known everything, he might 
not have returned the compliment. He might, he did know, 
the story of the prank which had brought about such a train 
of unfortunate consequences for the young Frenchman (not 
to speak of leading his daughter to break off her own en¬ 
gagement) ; and he fully approved her determination to get 
injustice righted. But he did not know that Juliana, dis¬ 
gusted at the evasive attitude of the Transport Office, which 
'‘regretted that nothing could be done at present/' had been, 
since June, in communication with an escape agent at 
Plymouth, and very little suspected the reason why she 
never wore her sapphire necklace nowadays. How could 
he imagine that the gems were (or had been) in the custody 
of a low-looking individual who dwelt at the sign of three 
balls in Cheapside, or that Juliana, heavily veiled, was in the 
habit of calling every week for letters at a little stationer's 
in Mount Street. Or that these letters, in a sufficiently 
illiterate handwriting, were from a man in a back street of 
Plymouth who signed himself “your loving Aunt," and 
that, with a few variations, they usually contained some¬ 
thing of this sort: 

So far, my dear Neice, my atempts to procure you a maidservant 
have not bin successful, the Girl not bein able to Leave her present 
Sitation. But I shall not fail to inform you when She can do so and 
then I have a Sutable gownd for her to trawel in. 

By this time Raoul des Sablieres had made acquaintance 
with that loving aunt and the suitable gown, but of this 
Juliana was not yet aware; indeed, she was uneasy because 
for a fortnight there had been no letter for her at the sta¬ 
tioner's from this affectionate (and expensive) relative of 
hers. Juliana had no qualms about her course of action in 
itself, since she conceived it a sacred duty to free M. des 
Sablieres at whatever cost, and she had only slight inter¬ 
mittent ones about having kept this nefarious manner of 
accomplishing it a secret from her Papa because she thought 
(quite rightly) that the knowledge of it would have disturbed 
him. But she did have some searchings of conscience over 
the manner in which she had established contact with 


THE SAPPHIRE NECKLACE 


255 


Samuel Creedy. For this purpose she had availed herself 
of the services of a devoted London admirer, Mr. Charles 
Methuen; but she had at least been perfectly open from the 
first as to the only reward he could expect for them—her 
sincere and undying gratitude. And for this guerdon alone 
the besotted Mr. Methuen had posted down to Plymouth, 
had engaged in various questionable negotiations, and had 
finally established commimication (prepaid) between the 
object of his hopeless admiration and a gentleman who, 
unlike the much suspected Zachary Miller, did really drive 
a genuine and profitable trade in escapes, and who, so far, 
had been shrewd enough to avoid detection. But the 
risks to himself were undeniably so great that he could ask 
a proportionately elevated price for his services. Hence 
the disappearance of Miss Forrest's sapphires. 

And not for one moment did Miss Forrest g^dge the 
jewels, but, as she sat there in the window staring at the 
flowers in the jardiniere, she was wondering whether she had 
not parted with them to no purpose whatever. It was now 
thirteen weeks since M. des Sablieres had started from 
Norman Cross for the hulks, and nine since she had engaged 
the good offices of Creedy. The latter, it is true, had 
warned Mr. Methuen that the business might take months; 
one had to be so careful and so ''fly"; however, the lady be¬ 
ing so free with her money would make things easier. Not 
being a fool, Juliana sometimes wondered whether she had 
not been too free with it, and whether Mr. Creedy would 
not continue till the end of time merely to report that the 
girl was unable to leave her situation—although he would 
not get the final instalment of his price till Miss Forrest 
Imew that he had succeeded. 

So the weeks went by and "Mr. Rowl" was still en¬ 
tombed—caged up with the lowest of the low. No word 
of complaint, indeed, was to be found in the couple of 
letters, grateful and brief, which she had received from him 
since the Ganges had engulfed him. They pierced Juliana 
all the more for that. . . . Yet when the first came to 

her she had been a little afraid to open it. How many 
times since that day at Norman Cross had she not specu¬ 
lated, with hot cheeks, on the interpretation which he might 
have put on her forward behaviour, which was still a source 


256 


“MR. ROWL” 


of wonder to herself. She, to give a kiss at all—to give it 
unasked—and to give it to a Frenchman! . . . But she 

need not have been afraid. Whether or no he understood 
her impulse (which she scarcely understood herself) there 
was nothing in either of his letters which could be construed 
into a reference to it. Her answers also were brief and 
restrained; she was so afraid of putting the authorities on 
the track of Creedy's efforts. 

But, after all, Juliana was telling herself this afternoon, 
even if Greedy failed, she had now a second string to her bow 
and a much more respectable one. Once she was sure of 
its efficacy she would write off to her loving aunt and tell 
him that she had changed her mind and would not require 
a domestic from Plymouth. The idea of this alternative 
plan had only come to her ten days ago, when she had heard, 
by pure chance, that the captain of a French privateer had 
recently been released from prison and allowed parole be¬ 
cause of his humane treatment of some English prisoners 
previously in his hands. And suddenly, like a heaven-sent 
memory, had come to her M. des Sablieres' brief reference, 
on that fatal day by the stream, to his having stood between 
a wounded British officer and the savage Poles at Albuera. 
Surely, for such an act as that, the Transport Office would 
release him from the hulks! 

But how to identify the officer, and how to get his evi¬ 
dence? She did not even know his regiment, much less his 
name. But a call at the Horse Guards by Lord Fulgrave 
soon produced both. The regiments cut up by the French 
cavalry charge at Albuera proved to be the 3rd, 48th, and 
66th Foot. Now it appeared that of the officers of the 3rd 
—The Buffs—who were captured, one, a Major Bracken- 
bury, escaped soon afterwards, and when at length he suc¬ 
ceed^ in reaching General Hill’s division at Villa Viciosa 
he was known to have said, in reporting the infamous be¬ 
haviour of the Polish lancers to the wounded, that he only 
wished he could meet and show his gratitude to the French 
hussar who, at great risk to himself, had saved him from 
their further brutality. As it was, he was so badly wounded 
in the head that he was never able to return to the hard¬ 
ships of a campaign, and he was at present on light duty at 
the d4p6t at Canterbury. Lord Fulgrave wrote to this 


THE SAPPHIRE NECKLACE 


257 


officer with the idea of going down to Canterbury to see 
him, but there came a reply from Major Brackenbury stat¬ 
ing that he himself had just come to London on leave, that 
he would be only too delighted to answer any questions, was 
putting up at an hotel in Jermyn Street, and would call upon 
Lord F\ilgrave at any hour convenient to him. On which 
Lord Fulgrave went off to call on him instead, promising 
Juliana that he would bring him back to dine, if he were dis¬ 
engaged. 

Miss Forrest got up and looked out of the window. Papa 
was late; it was nearly dinner-time already. How long 
would the Transport Office take to move this time? Why 
had she not heard from Plymouth? Would she have to 
reveal her own mole-like activities if- 

Wheels at last. Her father's chariot, and—^yes, two gen¬ 
tlemen getting out of it. 

A couple of hours later the pleasant soldierly looking man 
with the long scar from scalp to cheekbone was gone again, 
having dined with them and told his tale. To-morrow he 
would go to the Transport Office and repeat it there. He 
was confident that something could be done—should be 
bitterly disappointed if it could not, or if, when they were 
confronted, as they must eventually be, he could not con¬ 
scientiously identify his rescuer in Miss Forrest's prot^g^. 
For, as he pointed out, it might have been someone else 
whom Captain des Sablieres had saved; he believed there 
had been some other cases of the kind. 

But Juliana would not acknowledge such a possibility. 
It was ''Mr. Rowl" who had risked his life to save Major 
Brackenbury—for he had risked it, leaping from his horse 
and standing, sabre in hand, over that officer as he lay on 
the ground disabled and blinded with blood, to protot him 
from the lancer's onslaught. Finding that his furious re¬ 
monstrances were of no avail, the young hussar had there¬ 
upon sprung forward, avoiding the lance point by a miracle 
of agility, had seized the Pole's horse by the bridle, and, 
raining blows up at the rider with the flat of his sword, had 
literally beaten him off. Then he had knelt down by his 
foe, tried to wipe the blood froni his face, and had said, m a 
voice still shalang with indignation (and, to Major Bracken- 


258 


‘‘MR. ROWL’’ 

bury's surprise, in good English) that he hoped he would re¬ 
member the scoundrel was no Frenchman. Moreover, ere 
he vaulted on to his horse again and galloped after his 
squadron he had told a couple of infantrymen to take the 
prisoner to the rear with all consideration for his state. It 
was small wonder that Juliana had a picture which she was 
able to contemplate with great satisfaction for the remain¬ 
der of that day. . . . 

It was Lord Fulgrave’s custom, on most afternoons, to 
take a short siesta in his own room. But the day after the 
Major’s visit he wandered in search of a book into the 
smaller library, found it very snug there, observed a com¬ 
fortable winged armchair—^more comfortable, by gad, than 
his own!—and dropped into it. 

Already that morning he had received a note from Major 
Brackenbury, saying that his call at the Transport Office 
had been most satisfactory, that the Commissioners had 
been impressed with his testimony, and were about to take 
steps in the matter. Presenting his respects and compli¬ 
ments to Miss Forrest, he desired she might be informed of 
this happy prospect. 

There had not been much delay in informing Miss For¬ 
rest, for she had almost snatched the letter from her father’s 
hands. Juliana and her Frenchman . . . and her re¬ 
morse . . . and her determination to get him released 

. . . all so violent and disturbing . . . dear girl, 

it was in her spirited character ... he would not have 
her changed, no, he would not have her changed. But this 
young man, now—it did occur to a father, even an easy¬ 
going one, to wonder what he was like, ... So his 
lordship began to wonder . . . with the result that his 

book was shortly on the floor, a handkerchief over his face, 
and quiet reigning in the smaller library. 

But about this time Peters, the second footman, was re¬ 
luctantly admitting into the hall a small, shabby indi¬ 
vidual who asked for her Ladyship the Honourable Miss 
Forrest. This person was obsequious in his manner and 
d^mod^ in his dress; he also squinted. Peters was not 
drawn to him, and what he could be wanting with the 
Honourable Juliana passed his comprehension; but the 


THE SAPPHIRE NECKLACE 


259 


visitor maintained that her honourable Ladyship would be 
extremely vexed h he were dismissed without delivering the 
message with which he was charged, and which he refused 
to entrust to the ear of Peters or any one else. 

Not liking to leave him in the hall, Peters cast about in 
his mind for a place to bestow the caller not too exalted or 
too richly furnished for his low estate and doubtful honesty, 
nor yet too humble to be entered by Miss Forrest if she 
really did accord an interview to this Person. He decided 
upon the smaller library, which would fulfil both these re¬ 
quirements, and where, in addition, he could turn the key 
on the visitor. So the Person was shown in there, told 
haughtily that he might sit down, and was left, locked 
in with the last being into whose presence Peters would 
knowingly have ushered him. 

At first, indeed, the visitor was unaware in what august 
company he found himself, since the high winged chair ef¬ 
fectually hid its occupant from the gaze of any one entering 
the room, so, making his way to the chair on the other side 
of the fireplace, he sat meekly down . . . to be glued 

to his seat by the discovery which he then made about 
the opposite chair. Next moment too the veiled sleeper 
stretched, yawned, mumbled something, took the hand¬ 
kerchief from his face and revealed—Lord Welling^ton. 

The Person seemed to dwindle as he sat, his hands 
clutching the seat of his chair, his eyes fixed. . . . 

Lord Fulgrave sat up. 

“Who the devil are you?’’ he demanded, “and what 
are you doing in my library?” 

“Sir Arthur . . .” faltered the little man, squirming 

on his chair, the muscles which otherwise would have pulled 
him on to his feet paralyzed by terror. 

“My name is not Arthur,” retorted Lord Fulgrave in¬ 
dignantly. “You have come to the wrong house.—Ah, 
I see. . . Unconsciously he stroked his nose, not 

ill pleased. “Your acquaintance with Lord Wellington 
seems to date from some years back,” he remarked. “But 
my name is Fulgrave, Lord Fulgrave, and I should be glad 
—dashed glad,” he added, as he took in his visitor’s ap¬ 
pearance more fully, “to know what you are doing here! 

The Person cleared his constricted throat. “If you 


260 “MR. ROWL” 

please, my Lord, I have come to see her Ladyship, Lady 
the Honourable Miss Forrest.” 

Lord Fulgrave leant forward. “You have come to see 
my daughter!” he exclaimed incredulously. “My daugh¬ 
ter! W^atabout?” . . . ^ . 

“If it please your Lordship,” said his vis-a-vis, moisten¬ 
ing his lips, “ I can only tell that to Lady Forrest.” 

The Viscount Fulgrave eyed him with dislike and scorn. 
He made a sound between his lips indicative of these feel¬ 
ings. “Then you can get out at once! My daughter has 
no secrets from me!” And he rose and went to the door. 
“What’s this—what the devil’s this? Who has dared to 
lock this door?” . 

“I ... I think the footman who admitted me, 
said the little man nervously. He too, at last, had risen. 

“The footman lock you in with md He must be mad!” 
Lord Fulgrave strode to the bell-pull, then dropped it 
without ringing. “Look here, my man, you need not 
think that I shall permit you to see my daughter, but be¬ 
fore I allow you to leave the house I insist on your telling 
me what you have come about.” 

To be locked in indefinitely with Sir Arthur Wellesley’s 
nose was too much for a fellow captive’s resolution. “It’s 
along of this maidservant from Devonshire as her Lady¬ 
ship was wishing for,” he said, his little light-lashed eyes 
darting furtive glances at the aristocratic visage; encour¬ 
aged by the blank expression thereon he was emboldened 
to add, “Your Lordship wouldn’t be troubled about a little 
matter like that.” 

“I certainly don’t know anything of it,” agreed his 
Lordship, who was not indeed in the habit of engaging his 
own female domestics. Nor, for the matter of that, was 
Juliana, such matters being in the hands of Mrs. Webber, 
the housekeeper. But, whichever of them had manifested 
this desire for a maid from Devonshire, she seemed to Lord 
IMlgrave to have gone to a curious stratum of society to 
gratify it. He was puzzled. 

“Are you any relation of the girl’s?” 

“No, my Lord.” 

“What’s your name?” 

“Drane, Sir—my Lord; Joseph Drane.” 


THE SAPPHIRE NECKLACE 261 

‘‘Well, Mr. Drane, if that is your errand, I think you had 
better see my housekeeper.’^ And Lord Fulgrave again 
put out his hand to the bell-pull. 

“I do beseech your Lordship,” said Mr. Drane, clasping 
his hands, “to let me see her Ladyship. She—she will be 
terribly put out if she don’t see me, I assure you.” 

This prediction seemed to Lord Fulgrave very wide of 
the mark. 

“Has Miss Forrest ever seen you before?” 

“No, my Lord.” 

“ Is she expecting to see you? ” 

“No, my Lord. There should have been a letter from 
Devonshire, but—but there was a hitch about sending a 
letter, so I was to come and give her Ladyship a message.” 

“A message from whom?” 

Mr. Drane was silent, and shifted on his feet. 

“Come, come, don’t you know? A message from the 
girl, I suppose, or from her relations?” 

“Yes, yes, my Lord, that is it—^from her aunt. Your 
Lordship is quite correct.” 

And if Mr. Drane, after his mutism, had not been so 
stumblingly eager to assure him of this Lord Fulgrave might 
have been more satisfied. As it was he gazed upon him 
with a growing frown. 

“I must get to the bottom of this,” he declared, and this 
time he did ring the bell. ^ But even as he rang there came 
the sound of the key turning in the lock. “I left the man 
in here. Madam,” said the voice of Peters, and Miss Forrest 
herself entered the room. 


CHAPTER IX 
NEWS FROM PLYMOUTH 

The price was no subject of debate. The Princess was in ecstasies 
when she heard that her-favourite was alive, and might so cheaply 
be ransomed.— Rasselas, chap, xxxvii. 

Juliana’s eyes fell immediately upon Mr. Drane, and the 
momentary bewilderment in them was succeeded by a look 

of comprehension. “You have come, I suppose to-” she 

began eagerly—^and then perceived that Mr. Drane was not 
alone. “Oh, I did not know that you were in here. Papa,’’ 
she said with obvious discomposure. 

“No, my dear, it is evident that you did not,” returned 
her parent with meaning. “But I think it is just as well 
that I am.” 

It was plain that Juliana did not share this opinion, nor 
Mr. Drane either. 

“I imderstand,” resumed his Lordship, “that this Mr. 
Drane has come about some matter of engaging a 
maidservant from the country. If I may say so with¬ 
out offence to him, I think you or Mrs. Webber choose 
strange intermediaries for such a business. I imagine— 
not that I know anything about it—^that such negotia¬ 
tions were usually conducted through the medium of a 
female.” 

Neither party gave assent or dissent to this. Mr. Drane 
was looking agonized. 

Lord Fulgrave turned to his daughter. “Who is this 
man, Juliana?” he demanded, with a manner which, joined 
to the ia-thurian nose, caused Mr. Drane’s legs suddenly 
to tremble beneath him. 

“I ima^ne that he came to bring me a message,” replied 
Juliana with fair composure. “I . . . had better tell 

you, I think. Papa, because it is a matter in which you are 
262 



NEWS FROM PLYMOUTH 263 

interested too. I hope that this . . . this gentleman 
brings me news from Plymouth—Papa!” 

“Yes, your Ladyship,” put in Mr. Drane encouraged. 
“News from Mr. Greedy.” 

“Oh!” Juliana’s face lit up; she took a step forward. 
“ Is it good news at last? ” 

“Yes, your Ladyship.” 

“Then tell us about it! My father will be delighted to 
hear it too. Listen, Papa,” she said, and clung to his arm. 

Mr. Drane’s demeanour, though still deprecatory, be¬ 
came touched with the consciousness of merit. “Greedy 
sent word to me, my Lady, being his brother-in-law, because 
he did not like to trust the post this time. I was to tell 
your honourable Ladyship that the . . . the person 
in question was got away and brought to his house as ar¬ 
ranged; it was the afternoon of the 10th. Greedy rigged 
him out as you suggested; he looked fine, he said, and no 
one would have told him from a girl; he left early next 
morning, and must have got clear away, or Greedy would 
have heard else. Greedy gave him a map. Miss—^my 
Lady—and every penny of the money provided for the 
purpose, and ventures to think it may be counted a good 
clean job, and not dear at the price.” 

“No, no!” cried Juliana, her eyes shining, “not dear at 
any price! Papa, Papa, do you understand? He’s got 
away—he’s free—he’s out of that horrible ship!” Still 
hanging on his arm she raised a glowing face to his unrespon¬ 
sive one. “ It is almost too good to be true. And those are 
all the details you know, Mr. Drane?” 

“That’s all the message Greedy sent me. Miss.” 

“But why, if M. des Sablieres escaped on the tenth—a 
week ago to-day—has there been this delay in letting me 
know it?” 

“The message had to be passed on like. Miss, from one to 
another,” replied Mr. Drane mysteriously. “Slower than 
the post, that is.” 

“I understand. And how soon, after leaving Plymouth, 
would he get away altogether?” 

“That would depend, my Lady, on whether he had 
to-” 

“Am I to understand,” broke in Viscount Fulgrave in his 


264 


“MR. ROWL^’ 


House of Lords manner, “that your Frenchman has escaped 
from the hulks just when it seems clear that, owing to Major 
Brackenbury’s intervention, the Transport Office is on 
the point of releasing him on their own initiative? That 
seems to me singularly unfortunate!” 

“Oh, Papa, do not be so prudent!” cried his radiant 
daughter. “I daresay the Transport Office would not 
have moved for weeks, and every-” 

“It seems to me singularly unfortunate,” repeated his 
Lordship. ^ “And I should like to know how the young man 
has contrived to let you know about it? Who is this 
Creed, or Greedy, who ‘rigged him out’ and provided him 
with money? A British subject?” 

“I suppose so,” said Juliana lightly. 

“Then I hope he does not realize,” said Lord Fulgrave 
with majesty, “what an unpatriotic, what a shocking thing 
he has done! I hope he did it in ignorance! But ignorance 
will not save him from the penalty of his misconduct if it is 
found out. Glad as I should be to know that the young 
man was released, I do not like to think that any English¬ 
man is so lost to shame as to connive at his escape for 
money—since that is evidently what it comes to, this ‘job 
cheap at the price’! You, Sir”—he addressed the di¬ 
minishing Drane—“beware what you are about! This 
Greedy has committed felony—it is clearly so laid down by 
last year’s Act—^and he stands in imminent danger of 
transportation!” 

“But only if someone informs against him,” protested 
Juliana, recalled to a somewhat nervous attention. “And 
you would hardly do that, would you. Papa, you who realize 
the horrible injustice of M. des Sablieres’ imprisonment!” 

“That has nothing to do with the behaviour of this 
Creed, or Greedy, ” retorted his Lordship with truth. Once 
more he addressed Mr. Greedy’s representative. ‘‘ Situated 
as I am, feeling a compassionate interest in this young 
Frenchman, it would be unbecoming in me to take any 
active steps against this man in Plymouth. But I warn 
you, I warn you, Mr. Drane, that you are both playing 
with fire. Tell him that I say so. You may go!” 

From Mr. Drane’s appearance during these last two 
speeches one would have imagined that he would now bolt 


NEWS FROM PLYMOUTH 265 

gladly for the door. But he did not. He shuffled his feet, 
look^ down, round, and finally at Juliana. 

'‘Would your Ladyship give me a word alone?” he mur- 
mured. 

“Certainly not!” replied her father. “Have you not 
delivered the message with which you were charged by 
this . . • miscreant?” 

“Yes, my Lord,” said Mr. Drane meekly. “But there 
still remains”—^he gazed agonizedly at Juliana—“the little 
matter of the money . . . the small balance . . .” 

“The balance!” exclaimed his Lordship. “Money— 
whose money? And what has that to do with us?” 

“It was I who found the money on M. des Sablieres’ be¬ 
half for Mr. Greedy,” announced Juliana hastily, and very 
pink. “It is true that there does remain a small balance 
due to him, which I had forgotten for the moment. I will 
fetch it, Mr. Drane.” 

And she went quickly out of the room before her father 
had recovered from his stupefaction sufficiently to stop 
her, and so light-hearted that the coming reckoning with 
him did not trouble her much. But she likewise hastened 
back because she did not know what, in her absence. Papa 
might not say or do to the poor little man. 

Indeed on her return Mr. Drane’s feathers were still 
more drooping; he looked like a small bird dishevelled by 
tempest and yet holding on to his twig. ^ But he was the 
only occupant of the room, at which Juliana was rather 
surprised . . . and yet not surprised. 

“His Lordship’s not gone to set the runners on me, has 
he, my Lady?” he quavered. “He spoke to me something 
cruel, and I can’t think why I was put in here with him! ^ 

“Neither can I,” confessed Juliana. “No, I do not think 
he will take any steps against you; but you must remember 
that all this has been a great shock to him, for he knew 
nothing at all about the matter. You are not to imagine 
that he did,” she added rather haughtily. 

“No, my Lady, I could see that. Very unfortunate it 
come out before him, but I couldn’t help that. Thank 
you, my Lady. I’m sure I wish your Ladyship very good 
health . . . and you’ll be able to keep his Lordship 

from saying anything about Greedy, won’t you, my Lady/ 


266 


“MR. ROWL” 


Lord Fulgrave was walking agitatedly up and down his 
study when, thinking it best to seek him at once, his 
daughter entered, 

“Juliana! I cannot credit it! My own daughter in¬ 
volved in a felony! And I who was threatening this 
person in Plymouth with the rigours of the law! . . . 

This Drane may go and lay information against you, 
Juliana.” 

“I don’t think he will. Papa. You frightened him too 
much on his own account.” 

“It would be a good thing if I could frighten you. Miss! 
Do you know that you could be put in the pillory for what 
you have done?” 

To which Miss Juliana ve^ unsatisfactorily replied that 
she should have deserved this punishment, not for having 
provided the money to get M. des Sablieres out of the hulks, 
but for having sent him there in the first instance. 

“Juliana,” said her father, drawing up his commanding 
form, “I find your extreme preoccupation over this young 
man almost unbecoming.” 

“I am sorry to hear that. Papa. I assure you that I 
was never in the least preoccupied with him imtil I in¬ 
jured him.” 

“Then I am afraid that I must look to see this undue 
interest of yours continue, for I repeat my conviction that 
his escape, for which you appear to be responsible, is very 
unfortunate at this juncture, and may be found to have 
injured him still more. And how, pray, did you find the 
money—was it a large sum?” 

“I sold my sapphires,” replied his daughter succinctly. 
But, as her father uttered an exclamation of incredulity 
and horror she went on quickly, her face clouding as it 
had not at his reproaches. “Papa, do you really think it 
is so unfortunate, his escape? If Major Brackenbury’s 
testimony really had any effect I was going to write to 
Greedy and tell him to cease his efforts. I did not know 
that he had already succeeded.” 

“But how did you get into communication with Greedy 
in the first place? Does he know who you are? Did his 
letters come here, or . . . Juliana, is it possible that 
you have stooped to a clandestine correspondence?” 


NEWS FROM PLYMOUTH 267 

'‘But, Papa,” said Miss Forrest, a dimple appearing, 
“that, surely, can only be a matter of reproach if it be 
conducted with a lover? And Mr. Greedy, as he was de¬ 
scribed to me-” 

“Who described him to you? You have had a go- 
between in this!” cried Lord Fulgrave. “Who was it— 
that creature Drane?” 

“No, somebody more presentable,” said Juliana. “Mr. 
Methuen kindly went down to Plymouth for me.” 

Lord Fulgrave stared wildly as he discovered more 
mmifications of crime. “Good God! Methuen drawn 
into it too! Juliana, I scarcely know you for my own 
daughter! And we are all in the hands of this Greedy and 
his accomplices, if he chooses to blackmail us. I can 
never hold up my head again!” 

And he sat down and took the fine head in question be¬ 
tween his hands. 

“Oh, Papa,” said Juliana penitently, “I am sorry if you 
feel so deeply over what you are in no way responsible for. 
But I am sure Greedy is too cautious to risk exposure; we 
shall never hear of him again. Darling Papa, I was 
obliged to do it! I could not sleep at nights knowing what 
M. des Sablieres was undergoing through my fault.” 

“I hoped you would have learnt a lesson over that af¬ 
fair,” lamented her parent. “But no, you are as wilful 
as ever! You told me that you were ohliged^ to show Mul- 
holland that you were not in subjection to his whims—and 
look at the results. What the results of this may be I 
don’t like to think. I have been very weak with you. 
You want a husband, Juliana, to keep you in check . . . 

but if you indulge in many more of these extraordinary 
proceedings you are not likely to get one.” 

Having regard to the number of her suitors both parties 
knew this to be a mere rhetorical threat, and it passed with¬ 
out comment. Juliana sat down on the arm of the chair. 

“Well, I am not anxious to leave you. Papa,” she ob¬ 
served in a resigned voice. 

“That I can quite understand,” replied his Lordship. 
“In no other man’s house would you be allowed a tithe of 
the freedom which is allowed you in this.” 

“Then I had certainly better stay in it,” retorted Miss 


268 


MR. ROWL’^ 


Forrest with composure. ''And now I will tell you every¬ 
thing, dearest Papa.” She slipped an arm round his 
neck. "I had no intention of keeping you in the dark for 
ever, you know.” 

"No—only until there was no chance of my putting 
a stop to your actions,” groaned her sire. "Well, pro- 

Juliana’s confession ended in the customary way—in 
absolution. She was genuinely sorry that her father should 
feel himself involved, through no fault whatever of his own, 
in what he considered a most reprehensible transaction, and 
that no assurance of hers of her entire readiness to take all 
the blame, if necessary, consoled him at all. How could 
she take the blame in the eyes of the world, he asked? He 
spoke much, and justifiably, too, of the situation in which 
she had placed him with regard to Major Brackenbury 
and his efforts, which would now be rendered useless; what, 
he enquired, was the good of all this to-do about Poles and 
gratitude when his daughter had stultified it by her previous 
machinations? There was not much that Juliana could say 
in reply, but she did begin to feel that it was perhaps a 
pity she had rendered the "Poles and gratitude” move 
of no avail. Yet, after all, M. des Sablieres had now been 
free for eight days, and it was surely better actually to be 
free than merely to have the prospect of freedom, and then 
probably only of freedom in a modified form—^restoration to 
parole. Perhaps before very long she would receive a letter 
from France; for she would not allow herself to dwell on the 
possibility of his being recaptured. It would be her doing 
that he was given back to his mother and his sister, and 
. . . Was there really no other lady to welcome his 
return? 

But she realized, too, that she could at best only receive 
a letter, if ever she got that. She would never see him 
again in person now. By saving him in this way she had 
banished him; whereas, had he been saved through the 
agency of Major Brackenbury, he would have had to come 
to London for identification. But now, if he had got 
away, it was good-bye to him. 

. . . Unless, perhaps, years hence, when the war was 

over—if it ever was—she should travel in France, and, pass- 


NEWS FROM PLYMOUTH 269 

ing perhaps through the OrManais, where he had said that 
he lived . . . She saw herself travelling there, after 
her mamage. But travelling with whom? Especially 
since her late unfortunate experience, she did not feel suf¬ 
ficient predilection for any man mentally to fill that vacant 
place beside her in the chaise which rolled along the straight, 
unknown roads of France. A chance meeting years hence. 
. . . Would she even know him again? 

Long after she had dismissed her maid that night Juliana 
sat staring into the mirror. But it was not her own image 
that she saw. 

‘‘Papa,’' said Juliana, coming to his study next morning, 

“if you think I ought to write to Major Brackenbury-” 

But her father was not there. 

She wandered round, waiting for him. It really was 
awkward about Major Brackenbury. . . . Where was 
Papa? After a moment or two, finding that he did not ap¬ 
pear, she went to a bookcase, hunted about on the lower 
shelves and pulled out a large thin volume which she carried 
to a table in the window and opened. It was an atlas; 
and in view of Miss Forrest’s preoccupation with a certain 
young man who was, or had been, making his way eastward 
from Plymouth, it was very natural that she should consult 
it. 

Only, oddly enough, it was a map of France over which 
she was poring, and her finger, after some fairly wild ex¬ 
cursions, was resting firmly on the town of Orleans. 

She hastily removed it as the door opened. But it 
was not her father, it was a footman. 

“If you please. Madam, Major Brackenbury is in the 
drawing room asking to see you at once.” 

Major Brackenbuiy in person! What was she going to 
say to him? Her instinct was to make a clean breast of the 
whole business, yet at the same time to suggest that, if the 
Transport Board were ignorant of the escape, it was un¬ 
wise to check any benevolent impulse in them. In any 
case she must tell him the truth. 

Major Brackenbury—in uniform this time—was standing 
rather stiffly in the middle of the great drawing room, 
where the statuary which flanked the tall windows showed 


“MR. ROWL” 


270 

white against the heavy crimson curtains. As he ad¬ 
vanced to meet her Juliana saw that he looked very grave. 
He knew what had happened, then, and was displeased. 

“I am afraid that I must prepare you for some bad 
news. Miss Forrest,” he said, and his tone was not one of 
displeasure but regret. 

Juliana paled a little. “I think I can guess it. It is 
that M. des Sablieres has escaped, been recaptured, and 
that the Transport Office are now going to refuse him, on 
account of his escape, the justice which is his due. Oh, what 
a crowning piece of ill fortune!” And she smote her hands 
together in a sudden gust of rebellion. 

Major Brackenbury looked at her, then he looked away. 

“Yes, he has escaped; but he has not been recaptured. 
There is no fault to find in the attitude of the Commission¬ 
ers. They were on the point of despatching instructions 
for his being sent to London for identification. . . . 

But this unfortunate enterprise of his . . .” He 

stopped. 

Juliana closed her eyes. In that sunlit room the most 
deadly presentiments seemed to swarm round her, cold, 
mothlike things. “Yes, this unfortunate enterprise. 
. . . Please do not keep me in suspense!” 

“It is so difficult to tell you,” murmured the Major un¬ 
happily. “And God knows I am sorry enough on my own 
account as well as on yours. The fact is, that though des 
Sablieres has not been recaptured, the Transport Board 
can do nothing further for him. . . . Can't you guess 

why. Miss Forrest?” 

Then the moths fluttered right into Juliana's brain. 
Yes, she could guess, and she did not need to embody her 
guess in words. She sat down in the nearest chair and put 
her hands over his face. 

“Miss Forrest,” came the soldier’s voice solicitously, 
“this has been a great shock to you. May I ring for 
some wine—or for your maid?” 

Juliana removed her hands and mutely shook her head. 
Major Brackenbury stood in a shaft full of golden motes, 
like a heavenly messenger; but his scarlet coat hurt the eye. 

“You are trying to tell me that he preferred death to re¬ 
capture,” she heard herself say in a dull voice. 


NEWS FROM PLYMOUTH 


271 


‘'Substantially, that is true, I am sorry to say. He was 
drowned on the afternoon of the 13th, while attempting to 
evade pursuit by swimming the Stowey river near its 
mouth. The official report of the escape and . . . 
and its fatal termination was only received yesterday at the 
Transport Office from Plymouth; but I am afraid that 
there cannot be the slightest doubt of its truth.’^ 

Juliana suddenly stood up; the roses of the carpet swam 
a little. “Oh, how I am punished!'' she said in a very low 
voice. “ It was I who contrived his escape. If only, only 
I had left him where he was! . . . Major Brackenbury, 

it can't be true! I can't believe it—it must be a false 
report!" 

“My dear Miss Forrest," said the Major of the Buffs, 
“ I only wish I could think so. But I am afraid there is no 
chance of that. The tragedy was witnessed. . . . 

Pray do not take it so to heart; if you had to do with his 
escape you acted with the best intentions. Oh, I am indeed 
grieved about it, deeply grieved!" 

But Juliana had left him and gone to one of the lofty 
windows. She felt so cold—as cold as the marble nymph 
beside her. Tears did not come, though there was cause 
enough for them. ... It was her hand that had lured 
him to that river, just as on that day in March. . . . 

She began ineffectually to plait the curtain fringe. Drowned 
. . . drowned on the verge of freedom. . . . 

Major Brackenbury, in the middle of the room, embar¬ 
rassed, compassionate, hesitating whether to approach her, 
looked round with an air of relief when the door opened. 
It was Lord Fulgrave. 

“I have only just been informed, Major, that you^;-" 

he began, and saw his daughter motionless at the window 
with her back to the visitor. “What's this?" 

Major Brackenbury told him, adding, almost in a whis¬ 
per, “And the saddest part is, there seems no doubt that, 
subject to my identification of him, the Transport Office 
was prepared to recommend the unfortunate young man 
for complete release and a cartel back to France." 

“Dear, dear," said Lord Fulgrave. He glanced at the 
window. “My poor girl!—What, are you going. Sir?" 

“For the present, my Lord." He too glanced at the 



272 


MR. ROWL’^ 


window. ‘'Make my adieux for me, if you please. Gk)d 
knows how much I regret that I can never now pay my 
debt.^' 

He was gone, and Lord Fulgrave approached his daugh¬ 
ter. “Juliana, my dear . . r 

Juliana turned round. Her father had never seen her 
so white and still. “Papa, I think I am a murderess!'" 

“Oh, nonsense, my love!’" said he, shocked. “I am as 
grieved as you, but we must not take extreme views like 
that." 

“ I have been nothing but his evil genius all along," said 
Juliana, looking into some invisible distance, her eyes di¬ 
lated. “And now at last—^though I thought I was doing 
him a service—I have killed him!" 

Lord Fulgrave, just a trifle alarmed, drew her arm within 
his own and patted it. “Come into the study, dearest 
child, and if you want to talk about it to your old father, 
we shall be undisturbed." 

At that, suddenly, she kissed him, clinging closely to him; 
and, putting his arm round her, he drew her away from the 
marble population of the drawing room. In his study he 
put her into his own chair, smoothing her hair as if she 
were a child, and thinking apprehensively, “I believe she 
ought to cry—she ought to cry!" But Juliana leant back 
with her eyes closed, and for some time said nothing; then, 
without opening them, she observed, “I am fully pimished 
now. Papa, am I not?" and he knew not what to reply. 
Some minutes later she got up, and began to walk about 
the room, clasping and unclasping her hands. “ If only I 
could see him once, just once, to tell him how bitterly I 
am grieved, how bitterly I repent!" 

“Well, perhaps, my dear," said her father, stirred to an 
unwonted flight of fancy, “perhaps he knows it, after all." 
He made a hurried mental calculation as to what unseen 
sphere would be inhabited at the moment by a departed 
Papist (presumably des Sablieres was a Papist) and, feel¬ 
ing uncertain because of this queer, unprovable Purgatory 
of theirs, returned to safer ground. “While he was alive, 
at any rate, poor fellow, he must have known that you did 
your very best for him." 

Juliana, who gave no signs of having heard these attempts 


NEWS FROM PLYMOUTH 273 

at consolation, had stopped in her walk. She had come to 
the table in the window which still supported the open 
atlas. This she made as if to close, and did not. “I bor¬ 
rowed your atlas. Papa,” she said in a choking voice, and 
before Lord Fulgrave could recover from his rather alarmed 
surpnse at this abrupt change of topic, she had flung herself 
sobbing beside it, her arms outflung across the map of 
France, her head upon it too, and her tears making in¬ 
appropriately damp the departments of Creuse and Haute- 
Vienne. 


CHAPTER X 
“WILL HE HATE ME STILL? 

“For some time after my retreat I rejoiced like a tempest-beaten 
sailor at his entrance into the harbour. . . . But ... I 

have been for some time unsettled and distracted: my mind is dis¬ 
turbed with a thousand perplexities of doubt.”— Rasselas, chap. xxi. 

The Kestrel was gently swinging again at her moorings in 
the river which reflected the blue above; even the pair of 
wagtails were once more making their excited and jerky darts 
over the little lawn, oblivious this time of human presence. 
Perhaps indeed they were hardly aware that a man was sit¬ 
ting on the seat beneath the mulberry tree, because he sat 
so still, with an elbow on the arm of it, and a hand over his 
eyes. 

“It won’t be a short business.” No, indeed; centuries 
long it seemed already. Was it really only a week to-day 
that Hervey had first stood with Alexander Touchwood 
beside that bed in the spare room? And since then he 
had been beside it with him so often . . . and oftener 
still alone, listening to the difficult breathing, trying to 
shut his ears to the scraps of delirium, with their broken 
revelations of horror and suffering, the agonized entreaties 
for air ... air .. . he was stifling in this 

place . . . why would they not open a scuttle and let 
in a breath . . . just one breath for a moment! or at 
other times when the fevered mind was haunted by that 
crazy climb from the window, when it became apparent 
what a strain it had been on nerve and courage, when the 
dreamer thought that he had to do it again and shrank 
from it, crying “I can’t—I can’t!” and no one, not even the 
good and untiring Touchwood, could get through the mists 
of delirium to tell him that he need not: when life seemed to 
be burning itself out to no purpose, fighting a remorseless 
274 


“WILL HE HATE ME STILL?275 

foe that must win in the end, the foe that he, Hervey 
Barrington, had hounded on to the attack. For the voice 
was always at his ear, “ If he dies, you will have killed him.” 

And this had been going on for a week . . . and the 
fight was still being waged. But it was plainly a losing 
battle; indeed Touchwood had said this morning that the 
boy could not possibly last another twenty-four hours at this 
rate; it must end to-day one way or the other: either the 
crisis must come or his heart would give out, and he was 
afraid, now, that the latter alternative was much the more 
probable, and that they had all better prepare themselves 
for it. Hervey was trying to do this now under the mul¬ 
berry tree, where only nine days ago the Senora Tomas 
had sat and given umbrage to Mrs. Jeremy. ... He 
was trying to look at the situation dispassionately: to tell 
himself that after, all, he had only done his duty in making 
des Sablieres a prisoner in the first instance, and that 
since then he had saved him from drowning, endangered 
his own career and reputation for his sake, and cared for 
him not less vigilantly than if he had been his own son or 
brother. And yet, illogically, the sense of guilty re¬ 
sponsibility remained as strong as ever. If des Sablieres 
died, he died through his agency. . . . 

. Moreover, des Sablieres knew it, and—worse still— 
supposed his captor to be gloating over his suffering. This 
was no conjecture; he had said it with his own parched and 
discoloured lips when Hervey, coming in very early the 
first morning to see how he did, had observed in a rather 
horrified voice to Touchwood, “He is still in that pain, 
then?” And des Sablieres had turned his brilliant, tor¬ 
tured eyes on him and gasped out, “Yes, you are . . . 
getting an even better revenge . . . than you had 
hoped . . . Captain Barrington!” On which Hervey, 
after standing for a moment like a man struck, had gone out 
of the room. 

A little later, when Mr. Touchwood came out to say 
that he was going to try if cupping would give relief, he had 
found Hervey pacing up and down the landing in uncon¬ 
trollable agitation, had been seized by him, had the complete 
story poured into his astonished ear, and been implored to 
try to disabuse his patient’s mind of that most dreadful 


276 “MR. ROWL’’ 

idea, that his rescuer had been pleased to see him m pain. 
But the moment had gone, perhaps for ever; Raoul’s mind 
was too clouded thereafter for explanations, and very soon 
he recognized Hervey no more; though in the many hours 
to come in which Captain Barrington watched and nursed 
him the latter never felt safe from recognition, and tried 
always, as fer as possible, to keep out of range of the eyes 
to which sight might suddenly be restored. 

This unfortunate episode had made the strain of the past 
week much heavier for Hervey than for any of the others, 
though, as far as actual nursing went, Mrs.^ Jeremy had 
spent more hours at the bedside than he, in spite of the fact 
that she had her other duties to attend to as well. Her 
devotion had been wonderful, and sometimes Raoul had 
seemed to Imow her when he laiew no one else; he knew at 
least that she was a woman, and more than once had 
called her ''mother.” It was she who had contrived to 
keep him quiet while the broken wrist was set. She was 
with him now; in an hour’s time Hervey would take her 
place; the doctor would be back again before that. 

Captain Barrington got up; he had been sitting still so 
long that he was almost stiff. He walked slowly over the 
lawn to the river wall. He was conscious, in a way, of the 
glory of the morning, even of the snowy gull balancing 
itself out there on the KestreVs mast, but he was thinking 
how paltry, now, seemed his own great decision of a week 
ago which he had thought so momentous, against the ^eater 
which would be made to-day. And yet the life in the 
balance was only that of an imknown young man, and an 
enemy. 

Hearing a step as he stood there, he turned his head 
. . . and knew that the decision had already been 
made. It was Mrs. Jeremy, come to fetch him before his 
time. And he knew what the decision was; for she was 
crying. 

"Oh, Sir . . . come and look at him . . . beau¬ 
tiful he lies there, my lamb—^you wouldn’t credit it . . . 
like a miracle—asleep.” 

"Asleep!” repeated Hervey in an almost inaudible tone. 
His face was grey. "Do you mean really asleep, or . . .” 

Mrs. Jeremy made a final dab with the apron and her 


“WILL HE HATE ME STILL?” 277 

bosom heaved. “Sleeping like a child, Sir, as the doctor 
said he might if the whatever it was happened. . . . 

I canT help crying, it seems too good to be true! . . . 
Will you come back with me. Sir; I daren't stay away, 
but I thought you would wish to laiow . . . and you 
look as pale as a corpse yourself. Sir . . . tired out, 
I'm sure . . . but oh, Captain Barrington, isn't it 

wonderful?” 

Till he had seen him, Hervey would not believe it. But 
it was true. He had his hand under his cheek like a child, 
and drew a child's even breaths. 

^‘When he wakes,” thought Hervey, looking down at 
him with half incredulous eyes, “will he hate me still? 
I suppose he will never know how I feel about him now.” 

For, being an Englishman, he knew he would never be able 
to tell him; indeed he felt ashamed of the emotions which 
were his as he stood there apparently unmoved, while on 
the other side of the bed Mrs. Jeremy was unrestrainedly 
murmuring “Bless him!” with the tears still running 
down her face. 

A little later Mr. Alexander Touchwood, as jubilant over 
the issue, he declared, as if he had made some discovery that 
would silence the geologists of the opposite school for ever, 
was letting fall the opinion that, when he came to himself, 
the young fellow would probably retain only a very in¬ 
distinct recollection of the beginning of his illness—and 
as to events before his escape from Fairhaven, well, he 
would realize now that he owed Captain Barrington his 
life. 

“ I shouldn't see it in that light, if I were in his shoes, 
replied Hervey drily. “Yet, though I have no wish for 
gratitude, I should prefer him not to hate me. When 
he is awake I shall keep out of his way as much as I can 
until I am sure.” 

But when his turn came for vigil in the sick room it was 
not possible, with so small a staff of watchers, to refuse it, 
even though the miraculous and healing sleep had broken. 
It seemed very quiet in there, now that the unending fight 
for breath was over; and des Sablieres himself was so 
quiet, lying flat in the bed “like a Christian at last,” as 


278 


“MR. ROWL’^ 


Mrs. Jeremy had it, mostly with closed eyes and with 
no expression on his face beyond that of utter weariness at 
rest. Once or twice in the time that Hervey sat by the 
bedside the sunken eyelids lifted, and the tired grey gaze 
flickered over him, but no emotion of any kind was visible 
on the tranquil features and Hervey was reassured; Touch- 
wood was quite right, the boy had forgotten. 

But Raoul had not forgotten; far from it. Even in the 
intense lassitude of mind and body which weighed him 
down after his battle for life, even in the strange floating 
contentment of rest and quiet and freedom from pain—for 
both lassitude and content were his at one and the same 
time—there was a shadow. He recognized Captain Bar¬ 
rington and knew perfectly who he was. To him he was 
associated ^th one scene only, the scene which had taken 
place in this very room, how long or short a time ago he 
was not sure. And now Captain Barrington had somehow 
got him into his clutches again. 

The exact method he had employed was not clear to the 
young man, who remembered little with any coherence 
since his pursuit by the population of the riverside farm, 
but the fact of his enemy’s success remained. One could 
not get away from him; he loomed up and fllled all the 
horizon. He had gloated over him, Raoul, when he was 
ill; he came now from time to time to keep an eye on 
him, or sent his man, who had kicked him and held him 
helpless that night, to watch him. Only with the kind and 
motherly woman who had nursed him so devotedly—was 
she the housekeeper?—did he feel that he was not being 
spied upon . . . though she too must have her orders. 

But the convalescent was not at first physically capable 
of treading continuously this dismal road which led from 
an unpleasant past to an equally unpleasant future. Na¬ 
ture strongly desired him to live in the immediate present, 
and saw to it that he should so live; either sleeping for 
hours, or spending uncounted time in an agreeable stupor, 
just content with the touch of the fine, cool linen sheets, or 
the sun coming into the room. His eyes would follow Mrs. 
Jeremy about with a lazy, pleased attention; her delicious 
soups and jellies were the events of the day, and for her, 


“WILL HE HATE ME STILL?” 279 

however languid he felt, he had a little smile, and generally 
a weak word or two of thanks. But when Captain Barring¬ 
ton or his man was in charge of him he pretended to be 
asleep (angrily conscious sometimes, in the former case, of 
a humiliating desire to withdraw himself entirely beneath 
the bedclothes). 

Yet he gave Nature the slip now and then. At times he 
would once more be standing outside on the ledge of that 
very window now before his eyes, his hands gripping the 
gutter above him, his heart thumping against his ribs, his 
shirt sticking to them, his shoes slung round his neck by a 
purloined towel, trying not to be so acutely conscious of 
those nerve-shaking spikes below, and knowing that in a 
moment his life would hang, in the most literal sense, on 
the stability of that narrow leaden trough above him. 
. . . Or he would feel the ivy stem give way once more, 

and himself slipping with it . . . clutching . . . 

failing . . . landing with his wrist doubled back under 

him, and crouching there on the grass in the dawn sick 
with the hurt of it, telling himself that he had only wrenched 
it, and that the pain would go off. . . . How cold the 

river had been when he plunged in, and how longingly he 
had looked at the little boat which prudence warned him 
not to take, lest it should betray his route. . . . Yes, 
and how cold the wood on the other side before sunrise, 
and how he had shivered there in his thin wet clothes as 
he lay hid in the undergrowth. By evening, indeed, when 
he had cautiously worked down the river toward the coast, 
he had long been dry, but so hopelessly faint and hungry 
that necessity had driven him, after dusk, to the Willises' 
farm, on the chance that its inmates had not yet heard of 
the hue and cry after him which Captain Barrington must 
certainly have raised. 

And the Willis family, to whom he represented himself 
as a smuggler in difficulties ^^th the preventive men, had 
been more surly than suspicious; their ears were too dull 
to detect an alien accent in his excellent English. In ex¬ 
change for the fugitive's too-famous shoes and his stockings 
they gave him a meal, but they could not be induced to 
part with any old footgear in place of them. All he could 
extract in addition was a dirty bit of sacking and some 


280 “MR. ROWL’^ 

directions which turned out to be far from precise. Yet 
the visit of this penniless and half-clothed young man had 
struck out a spark of romance in one unlikely breast; the 
same young man, lying in his bed a fortnight later, passing 
the scene in review, still smiled at the recollection. Bare¬ 
footed now, and with his piece of sacking over his shoulders, 
he had not gone far along the darkening road, before an 
ugly, hulking farm girl came running after him with a 
mighty hunch of bread and cheese. Half timidly, half 
roughly, she thrust this upon him 'Hur thy journey, lad.'' 
Then she saw his left wrist all muffled up in the towel— 
how vain had been Raoul's hope that tying it up in the 
huckaback would ease the persistent ache of it-^—enquired 
in her uncouth speech what was the matter with it, and 
finally converted the towel into a sling. 

After his recent treatment at the hands of Captain 
Barrington this unexpected and unmotived kindness so 
moved its recipient that he rendered his benefactress the 
only return in his power; and though in the past he had 
thought little of making this payment when necessary— 
and even when unnecessary—^it was, on this occasion, 
made at real cost, for the girl was not only very ill-favoured 
but dirty. He shut his eyes therefore, and held his breath 
when he kissed her. 

The result of his salute was surprising, for, after a mo¬ 
ment's stupefaction, the maiden burst into tears, and the 
astonished Raoul went on his way rather hastily, half 
fearing that some rustic Corydon would appear and fall 
upon him. (But now he thought that his reluctant kiss 
had probably saved his life.) 

After that, disaster on disaster: ill-judged short cuts 
in the dark, full of stones and brambles; enormous fields 
which, to the wanderer's bare feet, seemed entirely de¬ 
voted to the cultivation of thistles, causing him to regret 
even his hated shoes; a dawn which found him not only 
back nearly at the point from which he had started earlier 
in the night, but with a fast-growing incapacity for exer¬ 
cising choice or movement of any kind. His head was 
aching horribly; once or twice he nearly lost consciousness; 
and it was clear that his condition was not merely due, as 
he had at first thought, to the infiamed and painful state of 


WILL HE HATE ME STILL?” 


281 


his wrist. Having vainly tried to eat the bread and 
cheese, he lay down under a hedge and wondered what 
would be the end of this. . . . Somehow, by afternoon 
he had crept back to the farm, and, hardly knowing what he 
was doing, implored them to let him stay there a little, 
offering to pay for this privilege by working for them later 
on. 

Had he not been half light-headed he might have realized 
that there was something odd behind the changed manner 
of the Willis family, the alacrity with which they greeted 
him and agreed to his proposal, and the speed with which 
they ushered him into an empty bam and brought him food 
and cider. He could not eat, but he was very thirsty. 
Between the heady cider and his own exhaustion he was 
soon asleep on a mound of hay, and never heard the bar 
slide into place outside. 

It was its removal which woke him an hour or so later, 
that and the hurried ent^ of his Dulcinea. Her frightened 
face, as she bent over him and shook him, enlightened him 
as quickly as her stammering words, and he dashed out of 
the trap just in time to avoid the pitchfork prongs for which 
he conceived an aversion far deeper than ever English bay¬ 
onets had roused in him. If one of the Willis brothers had 
not seen the girl go in and guessed her errand, he might 
even have got away without being chased, though it was 
hard to know to what shelter. . . . Then, the swim 

he had thought his last ... a boat making for 
him . . . thereafter fog, with an endless choking ill¬ 
ness . . . till the emergence of Captain Barrington 

once again. i i i i 

Illness, broken wrist, foolhardy climb and all, he had only 
been like a squirrel fruitlessly turning a wheel m its cage 
when he tried to get away from that man. And so, on 
the fourth day of his convalescence, Raoul decided to a 
question of the tall, unusual, semi-jocular doctor. 
him he might find out how rnuch longer he was going to be 
allowed to remain in Paradise before being sent back to 
hell. He was not going to give Captain Barrington the 
satisfaction of hearing and answering that enquiry. 

But he had to wait till the following day before he ^w 
the doctor alone, when Mr. Touchwood informed him that 


282 


“MR. ROWL’^ 


he was getting on famously, and would be a credit to any 
practitioner, much less to one who had abandoned medicine 
as long as he had. 

Raoul half smiled, and said languidly, “You have been 
good—^too good. Was it worth while to take so much 
trouble?'' 

Mr. Touchwood raised those eyebrows of his which were 
always on the move. “What do you mean, young fellow? 
Surely, at your age, you are not so cynical as to be tired 
of living?" 

“That depends on what you call living, does it not?" 
returned the young man. The colour began to come into 
his face, for everything was an effort, and he dreaded the 
result of this one. “I should like to know how long I am 
to stay here? " 

“In bed? Well, I couldn't promise-" began Mr. 

Touchwood. 

*‘Mon Dim, no, not that!" said Raoul with a spurt of irri¬ 
tation, for he suspected that his question was being evaded. 
“I mean, how long before Captain Barrington tells them 
to come and take me back to the hulks?" 

“Tells them to come and--My dear boy, you may 

set your mind at rest, he isn't going to do that at all. No, 
I assure you. When you are well enough he will, I believe, 
wink at your escaping . . . but send you back after 

this, never! Don't you worry your head about it!" 

A lie, a palpable lie! As the door shut behind the doctor 
Raoul cursed below his breath. Why could not Mr. Touch- 
wood be straightforward and tell the truth? Because he 
probably had Captain Barrington’s orders not to do so! 
Yet how could Captain Barrington think that he, Raoul, 
would believe such a manifest absurdity as that he would 
allow his prey to escape? 

Hadn't he been escaping when he came across Captain 
Barrington’s path the second time—^hadn’t he? Had he 
not swum out to the friendly boat when somehow Captain 
Barrington. . . . What was Captain Barrington doing 
in that boat with the men who were taking him to France? 
Or was that . . . were they ... a dream? 
Which was a dream and which was real? ... He had 
been in a boat. . . . Clutching at the sheet he began to 



WILL HE HATE ME STILL? 


283 


grope feverishly in the mist. How, if he had been in the 
smugglers’ boat going to France (as he seemed to remember) 
could he be here back in Stowey, in Captain Barrington’s 
house? He had never envisaged the difficulty in this way 
before. . . . 

Then, suddenly, the mist parted . . . 

The sweat poured off Raoul with shock and rage. Cap¬ 
tain Barrington had deliberately tricked him, lied to him, 
used his necessity as a lure, got him here by the most 
heartless of falsehoods. . . . He had taken all that 

trouble to entice him back so that he might have the satis¬ 
faction of the last shot in their duel, so that he might do 
as he had threatened that night. Wink at his escaping, 
indeed! He was waiting . . . waiting for^ the day 

when he could announce to him, in that cold voice of his, 
'‘You will be taken back to the hulks to-morrow morning, 
making acquaintance with the Black Hole first, I imagine.” 

But he should not have the last shot—no, by God! 
Utterly helpless as his captive was, he could fool him yet. 
He saw the way clear. It would not probably take very 
long to carry the business through; the plan only needed 
resolution. . . . 


CHAPTER XI 
THE LAST SHOT 

“I suppose he discovered in me, through the obscurity of the room, 
some tokens of amazement and doubt; for after a short pause he pro¬ 
ceeded thus: ‘Not to be easily credited will neither surprise nor 
offend me.’ ”— Rasselas, chap. xlii. 

Mrs. Hannah Jeremy was in her element these days— 
much more so than was her spouse, during the short sick¬ 
room vigils to which he was committed, wherein he inter¬ 
preted the command to “watch” the patient so painfully 
and literally that he sat immobile, his hands planted upon 
his knees, his body bent slightly forward, and his eyes 
glued upon the prostrate form, in the attitude less of a sick 
nurse than of a determined yet rather nervous man keeping 
an eye on a temporarily quiescent wild animal. And in¬ 
deed on one occasion when Mrs. Jeremy came down and 
reported with rapture that “her lamb” was sleeping like a 
child, Jeremy, unable to control himself, said with a snort, 
“Lamb, indeed! Precious little you Imows about him, 
Hannah! HeVe the sperrit of a tiger-cat, as I says to the 
Captain.” 

Mrs. Jeremy might be excused for e^ressing horror at 
this callous and almost blasphemous view, for to her the 
patient had shown no sign of this alleged spirit, and she 
regarded him as her especial property. What joy, there¬ 
fore, for one who was a finished cook, as well as an inde¬ 
fatigable nurse, to devise and carry out the most tempting 
invalid dishes. And she had been doing this for five days, 
to her own—and plainly also to Raoul’s—satisfaction, 
when on this sixth morning she was able to announce to 
him (calling him alternately “my dear” and “Sir” because, 
though she had enquired his name from Captain Barring¬ 
ton, she could make nothing of it) that the doctor had said 
284 


THE LAST SHOT 285 

he might have an egg for breakfast if he fancied it ''a 
beautiful brown egg from one of our own hens.’' 

Brushed and tidy and propped with pillows, her “lamb” 
looked in the direction of the window and said calmly, 
“I do not wish for any breakfast this morning, thank you, 
Madame.” 

Mrs. Jeremy surveyed him apprehensively. Used as she 
was by now to his general fragility of appearance she in¬ 
stantly decided (and as it happened rightly) that he had 
passed a bad night. 

“You are feeling a little sickish this morning, perhaps?” 
she suggested. “But maybe it will soon go off, and 
then-” 

“I do not feel in the least sick, thank you,” returned 
Raoul firmly. “But I do not wish for any breakfast all 
the same.” 

Mrs. Jeremy, though disappointed, was too good a nurse 
to persist. “ He’ll be all the more ready for his next meal,” 
she reflected. “I’ll bring it earlier than usual.” 

Spending particular care on its preparation, she did so; 
but to her real dismay this time, her charge politely but 
quite firmly declined it. 

“Come now, my dear,” she said coaxingly, “just a couple 
of spoonfuls—^just one spoonful—^to please me!” 

“No, thank you,” said the young man, resolutely shut¬ 
ting his white lips. 

“You must eat something. Sir, or I shall have to tell the 
doctor about it!” 

“I am not hungry to-day,” was all her patient’s reply to 
this. 

In vain did she tempt him at intervals with further delica¬ 
cies. He expressed regret, but would not touch them. No, 
he had not a headache. All the same, he was very silent, 
and whereas the day before—^in the earlier part of it, at 
least—he had talked to her as much as his strength per¬ 
mitted, he now lay mute or slept. Mrs. Jeremy was 
on pins till the doctor should arriye, but for some reason 
Mr. Touchwood did not pay his visit till the late afternoon. 

“So you’ve lost your appetite, young man,” he observed, 
informed of the latest crisis. “I can’t allow that, you 
know. Let me see your tongue.” 


286 


“MR. ROWL’^ 


Raoul exhibited it. 

“H'm/' said Mr. Touchwood sagely. “Possibly the 
Iceland liverwort decoction is not suiting you. Stop it 
for the present,” he said to Mrs. Jeremy. And as he was 
going out he beckoned her on to the landing. When she 
came in again she surprised a strange secret little smile on 
the invalid’s face. 

However, he must be hungry by seven o’clock, she 
thought; and the doctor had advised her to offer him noth¬ 
ing in the interval, a prohibition which went sorely against 
the grain. At half past six, however, the appetiteless one 
roused himself sufficiently to say, “Please do not bring 
me any supper, Mrs. Jeremy, for I shall not be able to eat 
it if you do.” 

Even to Mrs. Jeremy’s indulgent ear there was more a 
suggestion of “I will not” than “I cannot” in his tone. 

“But, my dear life!” she burst out, “whatever is the 
matter with you? Is it that you don’t fancy my cooldng? ” 

“Your cooking is delicious,” murmured Raoul with his 
eyes shut. 

And there was so much sincerity in his voice that Mrs. 
Jeremy was visited by a new and startling idea. He was, 
of course, a Papist . . . 

“Is it. Sir,” she asked a little timidly, “that to-day is one 
of the days when . . . when your religion forbids 
you to eat anything?” 

The mutineer’s eyes opened, rather startled; for a second 
they looked amused. “Would you feel easier in your mind 
if you could put it down to that?” he enquired. 

“No, I don’t know that I should,” replied Mrs. Jeremy 
somewhat tartly, feeling indeed small respect for a creed 
which could require anything so silly of an invalid. “ Come, 
Sir, it’s twenty-four hours now since you’ve had bite or sup. 
I’m sure your religion—^if that’s at the bottom of it—can’t 
ask you to do more than that!” 

“Oh, yes, it might,” responded Raoul, and again he had 
that cryptic little smile. 

“But you’ll be really ill again in no time if you go on like 
this!” 

Raoul pushed away the bedclothes in which he was 
huddled. “Do you think so?” he enquired in a tone of real 


THE LAST SHOT 


287 


interest. '‘Then I am sorry if it means more trouble for 
you again, but . . . heureusement que ga ne durera pas 
longtemps/' he added to himself. “Please do not give 
yourself this trouble at least, for I cannot eat anything if 
you bring it to me.’' And he pulled the bedclothes up 
again. 

Quite baffled, Mrs. Jeremy surveyed all she could see of 
him with great disquiet. There was only one thing left to 
do, and she did it. 

“Won’t eat—hasn’t taken his meals all day?” queried 
Hervey, looking up from a letter he was writing. “You 
mean, I suppose, that he has no appetite? Why? ” 

“ I believe he’s hungry enough. Sir, really,” responded his 
troubled housekeeper. “I gather—but I’m not sure. Sir, 
from his answer when I put it to him—that it’s a matter 
of religion with him . . . being a Papist, no doubt, 

with all those feasts and fasts and what not.” 

“That’s nonsense,” said Hervey firmly, for he had been 
long enough in Spain to know that it was. “A sick man 
does not have to fast. If he told you so, it was to cover the 
real reason. ... He must be feeling too ill to eat and 
does not wish to acknowledge it.” 

“Doctor Touchwood said. Sir, that he could find nothing 
wrong with him. No, I’m afraid it’s some maggot he’s got 
into his brain.—It couldn’t be, could it, Sir,”^ said Mrs. 
Jeremy in a sudden tone of horror, “that he thinks there’s 
poison or something in the food? I’ve heard of sick folks 
having queer fancies like that . . . but that would 
be such a terrible thought to have!” 

“No, no,” said her master, “ I don’t think it can possibly 
be that. Don’t worry, Mrs. Jeremy; I’ll go up myself and 
see if I can find out what’s wrong.’’ 

But he looked worried enough himself as he left the room. 
This was a most disconcerting turn of affairs; what could 
be at the bottom of it? Perhaps, although he seemed to 
have forgotten, the convalescent had now remembered the 
past, and was not disposed to let it be cancelled by his cap¬ 
tor’s present behaviour and intentions—of which latter, as 
Hervey had learnt yesterday. Touchwood had apprised 
him. (And he was glad to know that Touchwood had 
done this, for otherwise he would have had to do it himself 


288 “MR. ROWL’^ 

some time.) But surely des Sablieres could not carry his 
detestation of him so far as all at once to refuse to eat under 
his roof! 

He went in. The light was beginning to fade. The m- 
surgent was lying turned away from the door, on his right 
side, his splinted arm stretched out along his body. For a 
moment Hervey thought he must be asleep, and stood in 
silence; then Raoul moved his head, saw who was there, 
and immediately moved it back again. 

I am sorry to hear,” said Hervey mthout preamble, still 
standing where he was, at some distance from the bed, 
''that you have had had nothing to eat all day.” 

Raoul made a slight movement of the shoulders, but no 
verbal reply. 

“Why is it?” asked Captain Barrington after a second. 

“Because I am not hungry, thank you.” 

“But, unless there is some cause for it, you must surely be 
hungry by now.” 

“I am not hungry. Presumably, then, there is a cause 
for it. But the cause concerns myself alone.” 

“On the contrary, if it concerns you it concerns me,” 
replied Hervey mildly. “ I wish you would tell me what it 
is. If it is anything that can be put right I can easily send 
again for the doctor-” 

It was as if he had touched a spring. Raoul turned over 
in the bed—slowly and painfully indeed, and yet with an 
effect of flinging himself over. “Yes, so as to patch me up 
the sooner!” he said with startling vehemence. “What a 
blow my illness must have been to you—since even you 
couldn’t pack me off to the Black Hole when I was deliri¬ 
ous ! ’ ’ Here he struggled up on to the elbow of his damaged 
arm. “You wouldn’t let me die before, in the river . . . 
you lured me here by a lie, a heartless lie—so that you could 
have the satisfaction of-” 

“Stop!” cried Hervey, waking from his petrifaction. 

“You are quite mis-” but Raoul swept on without 

pause, his eyes dilating, his other hand clenched and beat¬ 
ing on the coverlet. “But you shall not have the satisfac¬ 
tion of sending me back again . . . even now, Captain 

Barrington! There is only one thing that I can do against 
you . . . and I am doing it . . . and I shall die 


THE LAST SHOT 


289 


here ... in a bed, and not in . . . not in. . . 

His voice suddenly wavered. 

‘‘For God’s sake, boy, listen!” cried Hervey in high dis¬ 
tress, but the feverish access of strength had already spent 
itself, and before he could get to him Raoul had fallen back 
on the pillow panting. Yet when Hervey stooped over him 
he still had force enough to fling his right arm over his eyes 
as if to shut out the sight. And at that Hervey abstained 
from attempting to make him swallow the wine which he 
had hastily poured out. 

“Would it not be better,” he said quietly, “if before de¬ 
nouncing me you waited to know what my real intentions 
are? I thought you knew them. I am not going to give 
you up when you are better—or at any time. On the con¬ 
trary, I shall do my best to help you to leave England.” 

The arm came away. It was trembling. “Are you 
tricking me again?” asked its owner faintly. “Haven’t 
you had enough of that? You can’t expect me ... to 
believe you.” 

“I think I can convince you,” said Hervey steadily, even 
sternly, though his heart was wrung to think what un¬ 
necessary suffering his own or Touchwood’s ineptitude had 
caused. “Directly I had got you here that day—helping 
myself by a lie, I admit, but a lie whose sole purpose was to 
prevent you from attempting to drown yourself again —sl 
party of marines from Plymouth came to the house in 
search of you. I lied to them also—said you were drowned 
. . . reported the fact in writing and sent them away. 

And so, particularly as I hold the Kng’s commission, I am 
bound for my own sake to uphold my lie. I cannot give 
you up now if I would. . . . Does that convince you? ” 

Raoul stared up at him, so shaken, so ashy-faced, that 
Hervey now put the glass of wine to his lips, and the re¬ 
calcitrant drank some without remonstrance, probably 
indeed without knowledge. 

''You sent away the marines!” he stammered incredu¬ 
lously. "You mean to keep me . . till I can get away? ” 

“ On my word of honour as a gentleman. . . . Now, 

will you think better of it, and let Mrs. Jeremy bring you 
up some supper?” 

Raoul shut his eyes and nodded, biting his lip hard. But 


290 


‘‘MR. ROWL” 


two tears, the product of weakness, hunger, agitation, and 
relief, began to steal down under the closed lids. Hervey 
did not Imow whether to curse himself or Touchwood for 
the misunderstanding, but he was desperately sorry for the 
havoc it had wrought; more sorry still when he heard, as he 
reached the door, that the boy was actually sobbing. But 
his was the last presence that could comfort him. 

“It is all right now,” he said to Mrs. Jeremy downstairs. 
“Just a misunderstanding—he thought I was only waiting 
till he was well enough for me to give him up, so he had evi¬ 
dently resolved to starve himself in order that I never 
should.” And as Mrs. Jeremy gave an exclamation of 
horror he said with a wry smile: “There is something of the 
wildcat about him. . . . Get him supper; he has prom¬ 
ised to eat it.” But he sighed heavily as he returned to his 
writing. 

Mrs. Jeremy was more than relieved at the obedient and 
indeed appreciative consumption of that supper; as she 
had guessed, the rebel was really very hungry. He was 
also extremely pale and subdued, but had a smile for her; 
like a child that has been naughty, has undergone reproof, 
and promised to be good. When she settled him for the 
night (not oblivious of a slightly damp pillow, though she 
said nothing) he enquired rather wistfully whether she for¬ 
gave him for being so ungrateful to her for all her care, and, 
giving her a glance that went to her heart, caught her hand 
and carried it to his lips. 

“Oh, my dear,” said Mrs. Jeremy, rather overcome, “you 
mustn't do that! It's been the joy of my life to see you 
better. If I had only known that you didn't understand 
about the Captain! Still you know, between ourselves, 
men are sometimes so . . .” she sought vainly for the 
word, “what I mean is, they don't always explain them¬ 
selves.” 

“And ‘between ourselves,"' said Raoul with the glimmer 
of a smile, “I suppose you don't consider me a man. It is 
true; I think I have to-day behaved like a baby.” 

“ So the soldiers actually came to the house after me, Mrs. 
Jeremy, and Captain Barrington sent them away?” 

It was next morning, after an excellent breakfast (includ- 


THE LAST SHOT 291 

ing a brown egg) that Raoul, watching Mrs. Jeremy as she 
dusted the room, put this query to her. 

''Yes, my dear,” replied the good lady, continuing to 
dust. 

" But what exactly did he say to them? ” 

"Told them you was drowned, I think.” 

"But, Mrs. Jeremy, why?” 

"Why? Because he didnT want them to take you off to 
those nasty hulks again.” 

"But,” objected Raoul, "two nights before, that was 

just what he-” He knitted his brows. ''Mon Dim, 

que c'est extraordinaire!” 

Mrs. Jeremy stopped. "Is that French, Sir, you're say¬ 
ing?” she enquired with sudden interest. 

Raoul nodded. 

"A very difficult language, I should think.” She came 
towards him, duster in hand. "And yet when you were ill 
you talked a lot of it.” There was something of admiration 
in her tone. 

"You see, I learnt it when I was young,” explained Raoul, 
amused. 

"And speaking of the French language,” went on Mrs. 
Jeremy, "reminds me that now you've got your appetite 
back all right. Sir, I can ask you what's been on my mind 
this day or two, and that is, what you'd wish me to call 
you. Not but what I've asked the Captain already, but I 
can't get my tongue round that!” 

Raoul continued to be amused. "Where I was before, 
Mrs. Jeremy, the good woman with whom I lodged, and 
others of the English too, used to call me 'Mr. Rowl.' 
It is—that is to say it sufficiently resembles—^my Christian 
name. You had better call me that as you cannot manage 
the other.” 

"But I should feel it a liberty to call you by your Chris¬ 
tian name. Sir,” said Mrs. Jeremy, hesitating. 

"Mafoi!” exclaimed her patient; "then I wonder you do 
not feel it a liberty to wash me! I do not care a straw what 
you call me, dear Mrs. Jeremy. But stop that dusting for 
a moment, I pray you; I wish to speak of Captain Barring¬ 
ton.” 

"Well, Sir, if you'll allow me, I had rather finish first.” 



“MR. ROWL” 


292 

Raoul cleared his throat. “You know, I have not got 
rid of my cough yet, and I feel that if you continue to dust 
now it will come back much worse.And he did his best 
to lend colour to this prediction. 

“There's not enough dust in the whole room for that. 
Sir!" exclaimed Mrs. Jeremy indignantly. “Though, of 
course, I have not been able to turn it out thoroughly with 
you so ill; and if I thought that . . ." Her eye kindled. 

“After all, it would not do you any harm if I were to spread 
a sheet over you and-" 

''Miskicorde !" ejaculated Raoul. “And then you would 
take the carpet up! Shades of Miss Hitchings! No, no, I 
withdraw my cough; there is no dust. I was only trying 
to coerce you." 

“Oh, was that all?" said Mrs. Jeremy doubtfully, for the 

word was new to her. “Well, Mr.Mr. Rowl, I 

won't put you to the trouble. What is it that you want to 
loiow about the Captain, poor dear gentleman?" 

Raoul raised his eyebrows. “Why is he so much to be 
pitied?" 

“Well, Sir, the worry he's had, and the state he's been in 
about you these last ten days! I assure you, Mr. Rowl, he 
could not have taken on about you more while you were 
so ill if you had been his own son. I don't suppose you 
were in a condition to know the hours he's spent out of 
his bed nursing you. And the anxiety he's been through! 
I heard him say to Mr. Touchwood one night that if you 
died he should never forgive himself. And the day you 
took the turn, well, he was like a different man— 
though he didn't say much. That's not his way. Oh, 
if ever any one had a kind heart, it is Captain Barrington, 
for all he knows how to be severe sometimes. 

The colour had been ebbing and flowing over Raoul's 
face in a remarkable way during this speech, and he now re¬ 
garded the bottom of the bed in silence for a moment; then 
he said: “Thank you, Mrs. Jeremy. If you want to put a 
sheet over me, I shall not object—in fact, I think it would be 
rather appropriate." 

“No, no, my dear. I'm not going to do that," said Mrs. 
Jeremy, on whom the fluctuations of colour had not been 
lost. “You just lie quiet a bit now, while I get on with 



THE LAST SHOT 293 

my work; Fm not sure that I ought to talk to you so 
much.” 

And Raoul obediently lay quiet against his high pillows, 
knitting his brows but not saying another word. But when 
Mrs. Jeremy had finished he said, ‘'Will you please ask 
Captain Barrington if he would be good enough to come up 
and see me?” 

“Now, Mr. Rowl?” asked Mrs. Jeremy doubtfully. 

“Yes, now—that is, if it is convenient to him.” 

Apparently it was convenient, for about five minutes 
later Captain Barrington appeared. 

“You wished to speak to me, I hear?” His tone was 
purely negative—neither pleasant nor unpleasant. 

“Yes, please,” said Raoul, just a trifle breathlessly. 
“ Thank you for coming up. Won't you sit down? ” 

Captain Barrington complied, choosing a chair at some 
distance. Raoul was sufficiently supported by his pillows 
to look across at him with ease, but he found himself instead 
stud 3 dng the manner in which his own left wrist and hand 
were bandaged to the splint, a thing which had not previ¬ 
ously much interested him. The truth was that he felt all 
at once abysmally shy. And Captain Barrington gave him 
no help. Was it possible that he also was suffering from 
malaise? No, he did not look like it when Raoul glanced 
at him surreptitiously under his lashes; he merely looked 
stem. ... It was rather like charging artille^. 

“I should like to apolo^ze. Sir, for what I said to you 
last night—^for having misjudged you as I did. I spoke in 
ignorance, as I hope you realized.” 

Captain Barrington looked at him. “ I did realize. And 
I blamed myself severely that you had been left in that 
condition. I understood from Mr. Touchwood that you 
had been told of my intentions. Evidently there was some 
misunderstanding, which I can only ask you to forgive, 
since it caused you so much distress.” 

Raoul crimsoned to his hair. Was this a deliberate 
allusion to last night's childish breakdown? All the more 
would he deprecate sympathy now. “There was no mis¬ 
understanding,” he replied rather curtly. “I did not be¬ 
lieve Mr. Touchwood when he told me, that was all. So it 
was my own fault.” 


294 


‘‘MR. ROWL’’ 


“Well/' said Hervey still more drily, “having regard to 
our past relations, I do not blame you for that incredulity. 
All the same you must try to believe it now. Unless by ill 
fortune your presence here is discovered, you will not return 
to the hulks. I hope to be able to keep you until you are 
sufficiently recovered to stand a fair chance of getting away, 
and I shall do what I can to assist you in that." 

“But, in God's name, why?" burst out Raoul, bewildered 
by the contrast between this undreamt-of generosity and 
the manner in which it was announced, by the disparity 
between this Captain Barrington and him of his memories, 
so different and yet, it seemed, so fundamentally the same. 

Captain Barrington did not answer that query. He 
looked at his watch and got up. “Is that all you want to 
know?" 

“I don't really want to know anything," said Raoul, 
twisting on his pillows. “I want to thank you, as I said, 
and to apologize." 

“To thank me!" broke in Captain Barrington, and for the 
first time there was emotion of some sort in his voice. 
“Thanks from you to me would be rather a farce, would 
they not? ... I did not mean anything offensive by 
that," he added hastily, for Raoul's face was again suffused 
with colour. “ I merely meant. What have you to thank me 
for?" 

“No, you meant, I think," said the young Frenchman, 
looking straight at him, and the colour fading rapidly, 
“that, as you pointed out last night, you cannot give me up 
now if you would. By yielding to a momentary weakness, 
which by this time you bitterly regret, you find yourself 
saddled with . . . with the necessity of upholding 

your own lie, as you put it. In that case would it not have 
been better to let me go on with what I had begun yester¬ 
day?" 

It would have taken someone older and in better physical 
condition to read aright Hervey Barrington's expression 
then. “If I gave you any impression of regret," he said at 
last, “it is incorrect. I merely used the argument about 
the impossibility of now giving you up to stop you in the 
madness you were set on yesterday." And here he walked 
away to the window, the famous window of the spikes 


THE LAST SHOT 


295 


and of RaouFs climb, and stood there for a second with his 
back toward the bed. Then, half turning, he went on in a 
manner which suggested that each sentence was being 
forced out of him: ''I cannot help it if you do not believe 
me, but I have never for one moment regretted my lie to 
the sergeant from Plymouth. . . . I would do the same 
again. ... I acted then, as I am acting now, with my 
eyes open and not . . . not against my inclina¬ 
tion. ... I used you that night you came with un¬ 
necessary brutality, as you must be aware''—a long pause— 
‘L . . and I ask your pardon for it.” 

For a second the bed seemed to heave beneath its startled 
occupant. Had he heard aright? . . . For perhaps 
fifteen pulsating seconds after the voice at the window had 
ceased Raoul was really speechless; then he drew a long 
breath and found words. 

''Captain Barrington, you are a gentleman ... I 
may tell you so? . . . For myself, I remember nothing 
of that night, now. And therefore you will let me thank 
you for . . . for all that has happened since? ” 

Even Hervey's curious reserve was not proof against an 
olive branch, so much larger and greener too than he had 
ever expected, held out in this way. He had confined his 
hopes to not being hated; but now that with such difficulty 
and, as he was conscious, in so ungracious a manner, he 
had got out his apologia, he felt that the effort had unsealed 
something in himself as well as in his antagonist. He 
could take his victim^s thanks, and, looking at their giver, 
propped up there gazing at him with those eyes so much 
too large for his face, he knew that they were sincerely 
offered. Slowly he crossed the room and stood beside the 
bed. 

" If it were not for me, des Sablieres, you would not be in 
a situation in which you had to thank me for anything. 
You would not have a broken wrist, nor have been half 
drowned, nor have passed through a dangerous illness.” 

"But how do you know that. Sir?” asked Raoul, looking 
up at him with the suspicion of a smile. "There are other 
ways in which I might have acquired all those experiences. 
Besides, you had your duty to do. I was an escaping 
enemy.” He looked down, and traced out with one finger 


296 


‘‘MR. ROWL 


the raised pattern on the quilt. “Will you allow me to say 
that I think the whole of our . . . misunderstanding 

. . . is due to a woman—to the lady of the tight shoes?'’ 

And, as Hervey made a movement, Raoul lifted his eyes, 
purged of all mockery, with only a rather rueful merriment 
in their grey depths. “Captain Barrington, she is dead 
and is not worth remembering. I never liked her very 
much; it was necessity which drove me to her company. 
Could we not bury her? And then, perhaps . . 

He stopped. 

The slow flush which had risen there died away from 
Hervey's face. “You are right," he said, not without 
difficulty. “It was . . . that business . . . which 

angered me so. But now I will not think of it again. Our 
acquaintance shall begin from to-day ... if you will." 

''Bien sHVy je le veux” said Raoul simply, and his hand 
came into the Englishman's. 

“I expect," said Hervey, loosing it suddenly as if it oc¬ 
curred to him that it might break, and looking from it to 
its owner rather dubiously, “that we had better stop talking 
now." 

“But I love to talk," replied Raoul, smiling fully this 
time. 

“No doubt you do, young man," commented the voice of 
Mr. Alexander Touchwood, for Hervey had left the door 
ajar, and there he was, just coming in. “And pray what 
are you and the Captain discussing? " 

“A funeral," answered Raoul, his eyes shining. “An un¬ 
regretted death and a very deep grave. ... Doctor, do 
you know that I have the most enormous appetite to-day?" 

That afternoon Mrs. Jeremy brought up a little package. 
“The Captain's had to go to Tawton, Mr. Rowl; he's sent 
you this." 

When he was alone Raoul opened it. It contained his 
money and Juliana's letters, and a line from Hervey Bar¬ 
rington: 

I should like you to know that these letters have not been read by 
me. As for the map, I can give you a better one when the time 
comes. 


THE LAST SHOT 


297 


Raoul lay still after that, the tears in his eyes again. It 
seemed like a miracle. The English—what a strange and 
wonderful race they were. A dictum of his father's came 
back to him. When an Englishman does a good action he 
is generally more ashamed of it than of a bad one." Yes, a 
wonderful race. But the most wonderful member of it 
was a woman. 

He put Juliana's letters carefully under his pillow, but the 
banknotes were all on the floor by the time that Hervey 
came back from Tawton and found him fast asleep, wan but 
peaceful. 



PART IV 

A MONTH OF MIRACLES 



CHAPTER I 
SEVERAL DISCOVERIES 

“I perceived that I had every day more of his confidence.”— Basse- 
las, chap. xl. 

The revelation that people are other than you had fancied 
them is always interesting, and only the practising cynic 
will demur to the opinion that they are very often found to 
be not worse but better. On these lines, in the course of a 
couple of days, did Captain Hervey Barrington, R. N., and 
Capitaine Raoul des Sablieres, 3'®“® Hussards, make sur¬ 
prising discoveries about each other. Hervey's previous 
conviction about his captive was not so much that he was a 
''wildcat'' of a pretty well imbreakable spirit (for he had 
enough acumen to allow for the part which circumstances 
had played in bringing out this quality) as that he was too 
histrionically gifted ever to be sincere. Raoul's main 
idea of Captain Barrington was not that of brutality in¬ 
carnate (for he on his side was far too acute not to know how 
bitterly he had angered him, and to allow for wrath so 
intense blazing suddenly out into savagery) but of someone 
hard and implacable as granite. 

Now Hervey, to his surprise, found himself in the com¬ 
pany of a young man of a particularly sweet and gay tem¬ 
per, and of an engaging simplicity of demeanour. And 
somehow he knew that this was the fundamental, not 
the superficial, des Sablieres. And Raoul—the discovery 
was rather slower—found in his ex-captor a remarkably 
feeling heart, which, for all his efforts, he could not disguise. 
It showed as he listened to the tale of Raoul's luckless ad¬ 
ventures after he had scaled the roof, the recital of which 
was early drawn from the adventurer; it showed still more 
clearly a little later when, on being questioned, Raoul re¬ 
vealed something of what he had been through in the hulks, 
30] 


302 


“MR. ROWL^^ 


and spoke of the scanty and often uneatable food, and the 
consequent perpetual hunger; of the swarming vermin, of 
which, since there was no soap and bathing was never 
allowed, the cleanest prisoner could not rid himself; of the 
poisonous atmosphere in which the captives slept, so foul 
that the guards who opened the portholes in the early morn¬ 
ing always jumped hastily back to avoid the stench thus 
liberated; of the six-foot-square Black Hole at the bottom 
of the hold, ventilated merely by a few tiny apertures about 
the size of a sixpence, and visited by a sentry only once in 
twenty-four hours, and where men sometimes went mad or 
died; and of the callousness of certain of the officers. Worst 
of all was the terrible degradation of character which took 
place with so many of the inmates, forced association with 
whom was the chief misery of the place for any decent man. 

And Captain Barrington, walking in agitation about the 
room in which he had once taunted the speaker with the 
fate which awaited him on his return to the Ganges, could 
only say indignantly that he was sure the British public 
was unaware of these scandals, and that, if they only 
Imew, his countrymen would insist on better condi¬ 
tions. With this belief RaouFs experience of the English 
character led him to agree; indeed, he gave it as his opinion 
that a great deal of the suffering in the hulks was quite 
contrary to the Government's intentions, and due to the 
rascally contractors, who not only cheated the unfortunate 
prisoners of food and clothing, but swindled the Admiralty 
as well. 

The unpalatable truth about the hulks, however, was not 
the only shock to his racial self-esteem which Captain 
Barrington was destined to receive. Rather stiffly (being 
far from oblivious of the fact that he had once refused point- 
blank to listen to it) he next asked for the story of Raoul's 
initial misfortunes, and was given it. Miss Forrest's name 
alone being omitted, and she simply referred to as “Made¬ 
moiselle." By the end of the tale of Sir Francis Mulhol- 
land's ingenuity Captain Barrington was staring at the 
narrator horror-struck. 

“ I could not have believed an English gentleman capable 
of such a dastardly action!" he exclaimed. “—Not that I 
disbelieve you, des Sablieres," he added hastily. 


SEVERAL DISCOVERIES 


303 


Raoul, rather tired, lay and looked at him reflectively, 
wondering why he should now be as implicitly believed as 
formerly he had been doubted. But to ask the Englishman 
why would only be to disconcert him still more. So he shut 
his eyes instead, and, without meaning to, fell asleep in that 
sudden uncontrollable fashion in which oblivion descended 
upon him nowadays. 

Since the interment of the Senora Tomas, however, he 
had been progressing steadily towards recovery. That too- 
ingenious lady's very tomb seemed forgotten now. But as 
for Mile. Adrienne, it was not long before her impersonator 
was telling Hervey about the original. And there came a 
day when, to the surprise of both of them, even the ghost of 
the Senora stood between them and was proved harm¬ 
less. 

It was Hervey who evoked her, perhaps unintentionally. 
Surveying the convalescent critically one morning, ere he 
dropped into a chair by the bed, he observed: “I really 
think you are beginning to get a little flesh on your bones at 
last." 

“Flesh!" exclaimed Raoul. “Mrs. Jeremy makes a prize 
cattle of me!" 

“‘Cattle’ is a plural noun, des Sablieres," observed his 
host smiling. “That’s the first time I have ever heard you 
make a real slip in your English—except of course when you 
were—" For one second he paused, and then went on 
without a stagger—“when you were uttering the sentiments 
of the lady from Badajoz." 

“Yes," said Raoul rather indistinctly, lowering his eyes. 

“Why did you make the Senora talk so?" pursued 
Hervey. 

Raoul shot a quick glance at him. “I . . . ma foi, 
je n'en sais pas trop! I think I could not help it. When I 
thought I was . . . celle que voiis savez . . . I found I 
could not speak English so well, that is all." 

Hervey’s mouth twitched. “Well, before you imper¬ 
sonate her again I advise you to take lessons, not indeed in 
English, but in Spanish." 

“And perhaps," suggested Raoul with a penitent expres¬ 
sion , “ in truthfulness as well!" 

“I’m afraid," returned Captain Barrington, “that the 


304 “MR. ROWL^’ 

Senora would never be closely acquainted with that vir- 
tue.'' 

“And yet/' said her originator apologetically, ‘she was 
not so ... so untrue as you may think, Sir—at least 
I have heard that some English ensign of the Light Brigade 
did marry a Spanish lady after you stormed Badajoz." 

“Oh, that tale was not pure romance, then? What regi¬ 
ment was he in? " 

“ I do not know, Sir. Not having met it in the field, I am 
ignorant of the composition of the Light Brigade.” 

“Then you made a deuced good shot when you gazetted 
your . . . hero ... to the Ninety-fifth!” 

Under his dark lashes Raoul looked at the speaker with 
an indescribable mixture of compunction and devilry. 

“Oh, pardon, Captain Barrington, but it was you who 
did that! I was very grateful, I assure you, for your sug¬ 
gestion.” 

Hervey stared and then broke into a laugh. “Yes, on 
my soul, you are right! It was my ovm suggestion to the 
damsel who seemed unaware of the difference between a 
regiment and a brigade. She had parts, that lady.” A 
comer of his sister’s mantle fell upon him as he added,“ It is 
to be hoped that the real ensign has not behaved as badly to 
his wife as your scoundrelly Tomas—of whom it seems I had 
the doubtful honour to remind you.” 

Raoul grew red. “No, no,” he said uncomfortably, “I 
am sure he was not like you. But I was enraged, you see, 
when I said that-” 

“Not without cause,” interrupted Hervey, dropping 
his bantering tone. “And I don’t mind admitting, des 
Sablieres, that . . . afterwards ... I admired 

your pluck for snatching the last word in the way you did 
that night. We had not left you any other weapon, I’m 
afraid.” 

Raoul shook his head deprecatingly. “But of that 
Tomas I am ashamed. I had to tell you some story, it is 
tme—though you never asked for one—but ... I 
wanted an excuse for sitting on the wall a little longer, out of 
those abominable shoes, and . . . you forgive me?—I 

could not help enjoying the tale. Only when you said that 
I was really married did I not enjoy it quite so much. . . . 


SEVERAL DISCOVERIES 305 

And now you have avenged yourself a hundred times by 
all this. . . He waved his available hand round the 
room. “I think of it every day as I lie here, and I am 
smitten to the heart!’’ 

“I wish you wouldn’t think of it, then,” said Hervey. 
‘‘Read a book or go to sleep when you feel like that. No¬ 
body wants you to-” 

“To behave like a girl,” finished Raoul. He clapped 
his hand over his mouth. ''Ohio, Id! que je suis maladroit!'* 

And his face was so comical that Hervey laughed too. 

With Mrs. Jeremy, of course, there had never been any 
need for reconciliation or rapprochement. Had he not 
been her “lamb” and her property from the beginning? 

Raoul could not be ignorant of this gratifying fact, but 
so much the less could he be e^^ected to divine her olbstinate 
separation of his personality into two distinct entities, one 
of which was still repudiated by her. He discovered this 
mental peculiarity, however, one fine afternoon when, wak¬ 
ing to find “Madame J^r^mie,” as he had taken to calling 
her, sewing by the open window, he was inspired, after look¬ 
ing at her in silence for a little while, to ask, in a far-away 
voice, “whether it was a dream, or whether it had really 
happened just now?” 

“Has what happened, my dear?” enquired Mrs. Jeremy, 
putting down her work and looking over at him indulgently. 
Perhaps he hadjbeen dreaming, poor young gentleman, that 
he was back with the mother for whom he used to cry out 
'when he was ill. 

“Your kissing me,” replied her patient with an intensi¬ 
fication of his rapt manner. “lam afraid that it can only 
have been a dream—I only wish I could think . . .” 

“As if I should ever do such a thing, Mr. Rowl! ” exclaimed 
Mrs. Jeremy, positively bridling. 

“Would it be so unpleasant an experience?” queried the 
young man, looking very innocent. ‘ ‘ Now that M. J^r^mie 
shaves me so beautifully? It is true that I had much rather 
have been awake. . . .” 

Mrs. Jeremy took up her work again. “You talk a great 
deal too much nonsense. Sir!” 

“I know when you would not have kissed me,” observed 


306 


“MR. ROWL’^ 


her tormentor. “When I had on that uncomfortable grey 
gown and the beautiful complexion. You would rather 
have slapped me, I think.” 

Down went the sewing again. “Don’t speak about that 
baggage!” ejaculated Mrs. Jeremy. “When I think of her 
and her brazen face, imposing on a good kind gentleman hke 
the Captain, my blood fairly boils!” 

Raoul stared a moment, and then burst into laughter. 
“But, Madame J^r^mie, it was I all the time! . . . 
You don’t mean to say that you still think it was a real girl? 
I can assure you that my blood boils too when I think of 
that meagre if elegant little meal you brought me up, when 
I could have eaten all that roast of the Captain’s to which 
you so cruelly referred.” 

“What I brought was quite enough for the young per¬ 
son,” said Mrs. Jeremy stubbornly, resuming her sewing. 

“ But no, it was not! I assure you that it was not. And 
it was all that she had to support her during her climb out 
of the window—yes, and its insufficiency was probably the 
reason why she fell and broke her wrist. For this is 
her wrist, Madame J4r4mie! . . . Come, you cannot 
really disbelieve me. And if I am not the lady, where did 
she go to? What of Captain Barrington’s reputation? ” 

“I don’t wish to discuss that hussy,” declared Mrs. Jer¬ 
emy, “but it’s not in human nature to believe-” She 

broke off abruptly, and stood up as Captain Barrington 
himself appeared in the doorway. “Yes, Sir, he’s awake; 
please to come in. Sir, if you wish.” 

Yet if, apparently, it was impossible for Mrs. Jeremy to 
concede the same identity to the fevered and half-drowned 
young man whom she had put to bed in the spare room on 
that Friday evening and the painted hussy who had van¬ 
ished from the same apartment on the previous Wednesday 
night, there was one subject on which her credulity was 
unlimited, and that was “Boney” and his doings. She 
would swallow any libel against that bugbear of the English 
nation; on discovering which Raoul naturally exercised 
his wits in finding food for so entertaining a propensity. 

One morning he had imperceptibly led her to the point 
where she exclaimed, “And so people don’t get married 
in France nowadays, there being no churches left, and no 



SEVERAL DISCOVERIES 307 

clergymen!” (For twenty years ago she had heard of 4mi- 
gr6 priests, but of the Concordat of 1802 never.) 

Raoul was pleased, because now he could administer a 
greater shock. “Oh, no, you are quite wrong there, 
Madame Jdr^mie. One does marry— a great deal. My 
last wife-” 

Mrs. Jeremy, the most sure-handed of women, dropped 
the broom she was wielding. “Your—^wife . . . your 
last wife. . . ” 

“ Didn^t you know that I was married? asked Raoul with 
elaborate carelessness. “Why not—I am nearly five and 
twenty.'' 

The reasonableness of this consideration further discon¬ 
certed his victim. “But," she protested, remembering, 
“you were married before, you say—you have been a wid¬ 
ower, already, at your age!" 

“Oh, no," said the young man, gazing at the ceiling, “I 
am glad to say I was never that. And indeed," he added 
thoughtfully, “even if one of them had died, I could hardly 
describe myself as widowed, because there would always re¬ 
main the other two. You see, we are allowed three." 

“Three what?" demanded Mrs. Jeremy, her head tum- 
ing. 

“Three wives. It is the Emperor's wish." 

Mrs. Jeremy sat down heavily in the nearest chair. “Mr. 
Rowl-" 

“ I daresay you don't believe me," went on Raoul, with an 
air of great candour. “But I will tell you all about my 
wives, if you wish. I wonder that I have not mentioned 
them before, for I am very fond of them all—^Julie and 
Anastasie, and Claudine the newest one. It is true that I 
have not seen any of them for nearly three years, and it is 
possible that by now some of them, if not all, have been 
confiscated." 

“Confiscated!" breathed his listener. 

“Well, you see," explained the romancer, wondering how 
far he could go, “there is the future population of France to 
consider—that of course is why the Emperor wishes . . . 

and one cannot complain if one is absent so long. I daresay 
I shall easily find some more. But I should like to tell you 
about Claudine." 



308 


“MR. ROWL’^ 


Mrs. Jeremy rose to her feet. “Mr. Rowl/' she said in 
strong indignation, “I can't but think that you are jesting. 
If not, all I can say is—well, really Fd rather not discuss it 
with you." And indeed she was quite red. 

“But don't you want to hear about Claudine?" asked the 
invalid with an ingratiating smile. “She had the most 
beautiful-" 

“I'd Clodeen her!" said Mrs. Jeremy. “And you too, 
you young jackanapes, if I thought it was true! Three!" 

“Madame J^r^mie, that's not respectful," said Raoul 
lazily. ^ “And surely Bonaparte's wishing me to have three 
wives is not as disgraceful as his habit of eating children— 
and you know that that is true, don't you?" 

“ Get along with you!" responded Mrs. Jeremy, breathing 
a sigh of relief, as her lamb's guile was revealed. “Making 
game of me like that! I don't believe you are married at 
all . . . and I pity your wife when you do get one!" 

“My ideal wife," began Raoul unrepressed, “would be the 

lady with the wig who-" but Mrs. Jeremy went out and 

shut the door. And while he was still smiling to himself 
over his late success Captain Barrington's tread and that 
of the doctor were audible outside, and his thoughts were 
diverted from the subject, not altogether pleasantly, by 
Mr. Touchwood's unbandaging and manipulating his wrist; 
though he managed to keep up during the operation almost 
his usual flow of persiflage, desiring to know, for instance, 
whether, supposing the wrist remained stiff in perpetuity, 
it would gradually turn into a fossil—for he always ex¬ 
pressed a great wish to be instructed in geology. 

“One thing that won't easily turn into a fossil, young 
man," replied Mr. Touchwood, “is your tongue, I fancy. 
Or your spirit either," he added, as he finished rebandaging. 
“There, I sha'n't have to hurt you like that again, I hope." 

“And when may I get up?" 

“All in good time," responded Mr. Touchwood, as he 
generally did to this query. 

There was, however, one person in the household who 
was not subjugated by the young man upstairs, and that 
was John Jeremy, late captain's coxswain of the Suffolk. 
He was not hostile, but he was bewildered and inclined to 



SEVERAL DISCOVERIES 


309 


be injured. Why Captain Barrington had turned round as 
he had, running himself thereby into a danger which still 
threatened him, was a complete mystery. It seemed too 
as if the young beggar had done nothing but get him into 
hot water, from the time when his master had called him to 
account in the Kestrel for hurting the blessed wildcat when 
he saved him from drowning himself (and secretly John 
Jeremy, though not inhumane, thought it would be better 
for all parties if he had succeeded in his attempt) down to 
yesterday, when Hannah had given him the rough side of 
her tongue because the razor had slipped when he was shav¬ 
ing his lordship. (For John Jeremy still performed that 
office, and performed it with much of the immense solemnity 
and subdued nervousness of the first occasion of all, when 
he had said humbly to the young man against the pillows, 
asks pardon if IVe not done it well. Sir—me not being 
used to shaving the Captain, as always shaves his self, nor 
I haven't never shaved a gentleman in bed before.") 

But Raoul, who had never set out to subjugate anybody, 
had no desire to wean the seaman from his rightful allegi¬ 
ance. He guessed quite well why the good mariner looked 
upon him with distrust, and but thought the better of him 
for it; it was because Jeremy knew that a French prisoner's 
presence at Fairhaven was a standing menace to his master. 

Raoul could not forget it either. This house, which was 
heaven after the past, could not harbour him for ever . . . 
and what if Captain Barrington did have to pay dearly for 
his generosity? The thought tormented him at times; yet 
he was still bedridden and could not get away. Moreover, 
since he had not been traced here three weeks ago, why 
should he be traced now, when he was drowned and for¬ 
gotten? Thus Captain Barrington, when he had broached 
the question to him. But the possibility was there. 

Another trouble was, that from beneath Captain Barring¬ 
ton's roof he dared not write to Juliana Forrest as he longed 
to do. Not that he imagined she would be anxious about him. 
Creedy, he knew, would soon acquaint her with the news of 
his escape, if only to get the residue of the money which, he 
had informed the fugitive, was now due. (Raoul had tried 
in vain to find out what was the total sum expended, having 
a firm intention of repaying it somehow.) And as Miss 


310 


“MR. ROWL’’ 


Forrest had, most evidently, abandoned her siege en regie 
of the Transport Office, she would not have heard of his 
supposed drowning; it was unlikely to be in the newspapers, 
and even if it had come to Greedy’s ears he would not be 
very anxious to pass on the fact to her. No, he longed 
to write to Miss Forrest for other reasons. But, not having 
Greedy’s facilities for private communication, he could not 
do it, lest the letter should fall into the wrong hands. So, 
since he could not tell her what he felt, he thought of her the 
more. 

And about Gaptain Barrington he thought continually: 
why he had done what he had done for his sake; why he 
now believed what he, Raoul, said; why he was not married; 
why he was on leave so long in wartime. (He had tried to 
discover the last from Jeremy, and Jeremy had replied, 
quite snappily for him, “A man must have a rest some 
time, even from sinking of French ships!”) Further, why 
his face in repose was so stern and sad. Raoul decided in 
the end that Gaptain Barrington had a secret grief. Prob¬ 
ably he loved, or had loved, in vain. The lady had married 
another . . . was dead . . . had eloped . . . 

had jilted him at the altar. He longed to question Mrs. 
Jeremy on the point, but delicacy restrained him. 

He did not, however, feel any hesitation in questioning 
the good lady about that half mythical sister of Gaptain 
Barrington’s who was so largely responsible for his present 
situation. 

What nobody at Fairhaven realized was that Miss Bar¬ 
rington would shortly be at hand to answer for herself, since, 
for reasons of her own, she was shortening her stay at Exeter 
by a full six days. Thus she descended upon Fairhaven en 
route for her own home on the other side of the river six 
days before she was expected there. Hervey, indeed, had 
not been thinking about her return at all; the ten days which 
had^ passed since his pnsoner^ and he had shaken hands 
having given him more immediate occupation. 

Aware of her departure from plan. Miss Barrington was 
therefore neither hurt nor surprised to find, when she arrived 
at her brother’s door, that he was out, and Mrs. Jeremy 
likewise. She was conscious of a strange—but surely 


SEVERAL DISCOVERIES 


311 


erroneous—impression that Jeremy had no great desire to 
admit her; at least he displayed no alacrity about the busi¬ 
ness (but then John Jeremy was never instinct with that 
quality) and he scratched his head with a puzzled air as he 
looked at her baggage. 

“ Be you gwine to stay, Ma'am? " 

'‘Yes, a night or so,” responded Miss Lavinia. “ —Unless 
there is any reason why I should not,” she added. “You 
have not, I trust, got smallpox in the house?” 

“Smallpox? Lor' no. Miss Barrington; whoever said 
so?” exclaimed Jeremy, looking alarmed; then, gathering 
by the visitor's face that the query was not meant seriously, 
he added, but without a smile: “I'll bring your portmanty 
to your room in a minute or two. Ma'am. For, if you’ll 
excuse me, I've got summat to see to in the kitchen, Han¬ 
nah being out.” And, eyeing her again with that slow, 
curious, half distrustful look, he vanished. 

“Jeremy is becoming a cook,” thought Miss Barrington 
as she went upstairs, “and culinary cares are weighing upon 
his spirits.” 

Miss Barrington's bedroom at Fairhaven was supposed 
to be ready for occupation at half an hour's notice, and, 
since Mrs. Jeremy was out. Miss Lavinia took off her bonnet 
and cloak and herself began to remove the shrouds from the 
furniture. Thus employed, she soon detected that some¬ 
thing was missing from the room—^the little inlaid table by 
the bed, which Hervey had brought her as a present from 
Spain. What an odd thing ... and yet perhaps not 
so odd after all, considering the confusion in this room at her 
last visit. What had become of that unfortunate young 
Frenchman, the cause of its disorganization? She had 
often thought of his fate during the last three weeks, but 
she had seen nothing in the newspaper, and had not re¬ 
ceived any letter from Hervey. Perhaps he had got clear 
away, as she could not but hope. . i j r 

No! she was not going to submit to being depnvm, tor 
no reason, of her little Spanish table, and, if Hannah had 
taken it into the spare bedroom, she would soon have it out 
igain. So Miss Barrington went resolutely through the 
powdering-closet—the fatal powdering-closet—to mvesti- 
g£te, remembering as she went her previous incursion mto 


312 “MR. ROWL” 

the spare bedroom, and what had met her eyes when she got 
there. ... 

It becomes therefore a question for pyschologists whether 
her mental preoccupation with her former shock tended to 
heighten or to alleviate her second one. Miss l^vinia her¬ 
self inclined afterward to the first alternative. At all 
events, so she averred later to her brother, she staggered 
and clutched her hand to her head like any heroine of ro¬ 
mance, and her heart stopped beating— “absolutely ceased, 
my dear Hervey! And I said, aloud I believe, ‘Good God, 
am I going mad, and is that to be my end?’ ” 

For there—^but this time well in the bed, not on it—^there 
he was again, the same young scamp, lying motionless in 
something the same attitude, save that to-day she could see 
more than his profile. And there was her vagabond table by 
the bedside, laden with a glass, a spoon, a bottle or two, a 
portion of jelly, and, rosily ensconced on a mat of their own 
leaves, two—or, more correctly, one and a half—of Hervey’s 
incomparable nectarines, those nectarines for which duch¬ 
esses might have sued in vain, and of which she, his dear and 
only sister, received a bare half-dozen in the course of the 
summer. Their presence here was as astounding and as elo¬ 
quent as that of the runaway. If Hervey gave him those - 

As once before. Miss Lavinia ventured nearer. The oc¬ 
cupant of the bed was sound asleep . . . again. Yet he 

was not quite the young man of her first discovery, who had 
looked thin and tired indeed, but not wasted or transparent. 
Since she last saw him Hervey’s wildcat visitant had clearly 
been very ill. But how in the name of Fortune. ... 

Deciding that, if not insane already, she certainly would 
soon become so unless she took steps to obtain information, 
Miss Barrington crept from the room in search of Jeremy 
(the door not beingUocked this time) and met him mounting 
the stairs, carefully carrying, not her baggage, but a covered 
bowl on a tray. 

“Stop, Jeremy!” she said imperiously. “You can put 
down that turtle soup, or peacocks’ tongues, or whatever it 
is, for a moment—he’s fast asleep—but if you don’t tell me 
how he got here again and what has happened you may as 
well order a coach and four for Bedlam at once!” 


SEVERAL DISCOVERIES 313 


Every time that Raoul came to his senses in this pleasant 
room, this heavenly bed, these lavender-scented sheets, it 
was a fresh shock of bliss to him. Yes, once again he was 

really here in decency and comfort, and not- He moved, 

gave a little sigh of utter contentment, and then became 
aware that the door handle was turning somewhat hesita¬ 
tingly. He remembered that he was for an hour or so 
under the guardianship of Jeremy, and that Jeremy was 
always rather timid in discharging this function and required 


encouragement. , . 

''Come in, Palinurus,^^ he said—for it pleased him to air 
what remained of his classical knowledge on one quite 
incapable of appreciating it, and who, though it had been 
explained to him that this appellation was the name of a 
Trojan pilot, remained quite unaffected by its—as Raoul 
considered—extraordinary appropriateness. 

But there came in instead a very handsome grey-haired 
lady bearing a bowl on a tray. , ,, . , . i 

Raoul flushed up to the roots of his hair—that hair which, 
as he was instantly and painfully conscious, must be ex¬ 
tremely untidy. Shaved he had been that morning—^y 
Palinurus—but he felt in no state to receive a strange lady. 

"I must apologize for intruding,^^ said the newcomer m a 
very pleasant voice, as she set down the bowl by the jelly 
and the nectarines. "I hope you will allow me to replace 
John Jeremy till his spouse returns. I am Lavinia Barring¬ 
ton—Captain Barrington's sister, of whom I think jmu must 
have heard when . . . when you were here before— 

though you may have doubted her existence." 

The rather hollowgrey eyes went over her, and a little smile 
came into them. "We were to have met in the garden 
that evening, I think," murmured their owner. I hope, 
Madame, that you are so kind as to excuse my present con¬ 
dition. I did not know that I was to have the honom . . . 

"Nobody knew," said Miss Barrington frankly, least ot 
all I myself.—Now, about this soup? You are re^y for 
it—can you manage with that bandaged ^st? ihen i 
think a little rearrangement of pillows first. She tucked 
them under him. "Is that how Mrs. Jeremy does it? 
There—can you hold the bowl so? And she sat ^hemelf 
down to watch the consumption of its contents. Wnat 


‘‘MR. ROWL*’ 


314 

is the stuff like? Can Jeremy cook? Ah, I expect it is 
really of Hannah's compounding." 

“It tastes indeed like the soups of Mrs. Jeremy," replied 
the invalid, lifting his eyes from it. “She cooks divinely. 
Miss Barrington, I am spoilt in this house—^you cannot 
figure to what an extent! Not to speak of owing Captain 
Barrington my life." 

“Tut!" said Miss Lavinia, “you came very near owing 

him the opposite, I fancy. Or rather-Do you know, 

my dear young man, that I am the cause of all your 
troubles . . . as a woman generally is of a man's? " 

Raoul seemed to ponder this. A trace of a smile ap¬ 
peared; it had a kind of secret quality. Then he observed 
politely: “I hope that I should welcome anything at the 
hands of a lady," and addressed himself once more to the 
bowl. 

“Your nation has always been gallant," observed Miss 
Lavinia, smiling in her turn, “but I assure you that the 
coals of fire which you are preparing to heap on my head 
have already been preceded by the ashes of penitence. In 
other words, I was afterwards extremely sorry that I had 
betrayed you to my brother.—But a woman's repentance 
always comes too late. Haven't you found it so, Mr.— 
Rowl?" 

“I?—No," said the young man, momentarily taken 
aback. “I have not made any philosophic reflections on 
the subject.—Do you think, then. Miss Barrington, that it 
is better not to repent at all?" 

“For a woman, perhaps, since the result is always so 
ineffectual," pronounced his visitor. 

“Ah, no, not always!" said Raoul quickly. “No, I can¬ 
not allow that." And he finished the soup. 

“And have you made any philosophic reflections about a 
man's repentance?" enquired Miss Lavinia, as she took the 
empty bowl from him. 

There was certainly meaning in her tone this time, and 
Raoul coloured faintly. “No," he said, his eyes lighting up, 
“those are cold things—^reflections. For undeserved good¬ 
ness one has only—gratitude." 

(“This is all very extraordinary," thought Miss Lavinia, 
“and I don't wonder that Jeremy could give me no coherent 


SEVERAL DISCOVERIES 


315 


account of what has been taking place. Of course, Hervey 
has the best heart in the world, but still . . /') 

''My brother has gone to Tawton, I hear, ”'she remarked, 
casting a side glance on the symbolic nectarines. 

Yes. He has the goodness to do a commission for me— 
to buy me some clothes,” said Raoul with half-concealed 
elation. “ To-morrow I am to get up for a little.” 

''More clothes!” exclaimed Miss Barrington. "—^You 
reject then that elegant gray gown of which you were so 
careful. Mademoiselle?” 

The young man in the bed gave her a look which said so 
much that Miss Lavinia's heart warmed toward him. With 
a little further acquaintance they would understand each 
other perfectly. 

" I regret that I never saw you in it,” she went on. Per¬ 
haps some day . . . I believe that I have it in my room 

still. I have half a mind to get it.” 

"But you must not let Mrs. Jeremy see it,” said Raoul, 
smiling. " It might give her a coup de sang, that costume.” 

"I trust then that she has not made away with it,” said 
Miss Lavinia. "I would never forgive her!” She got up 
with her surprising ease of movement, and went inconti¬ 
nently through the closet into her own room. 

She had to open and shut a good many drawers m the 
chest where she had laid the dress and wig the morning after 
the battle, and in the middle of her search suddenly heard 
Hervey's voice in the other room. 

"Ah, my sister is not here then?” (Did he not sound 
relieved?) " But you will have her and Mrs. Jeremy fight¬ 
ing over your body now, I expect, my boy. Have you slept 

at all this afternoon?” , , . i.-i tv/t* 

"Yes, thank you. Sir,” replied the invalid, while Miss 
Barrington caught her breath. "My boy”! and Hervey s 

tone . . . and the young Frenchman's when he answered 

him! Miracles had been going forward in that room. 

And by even that brief contemplation of them she ae- 
prived herself of the mischievous pleasure of having her first 
meeting with her repentant brother in the presence of his 
former victimizer and victim, for by the 
through the cupboard the bedroom door had shut behind 
him. 


CHATTER II 
JULIANA^S IMMORTELLES 

* The Princess and her favourite embraced each other with transport 
too violent to be expressed, and went out together to pour the tears of 
tenderness in secret, and exchange professions of kindness and grati¬ 
tude.— Rasselas, chap, xxxviii. 

The sun of the September afternoon poured cheerfully into 
Hervey Barrington's meticulously tidy dressing room, where 
he was chan^ng into riding clothes. He was going to Taw- 
ton on business—not by coach this time. Yesterday 
Lavinia had returned to her cottage, having stayed foiir 
days at Fairhaven. Hervey had observed to her that it 
was clear why she had prolonged her visit beyond the couple 
of nights for which he was usually privileged to entertain 
her, and asked how Mrs. Jeremy had borne this preoccupa¬ 
tion with her especial property. 

''Mrs. Jeremy's property?" queried his sister, flashing 
at him one of her quick glances. "Isn't he rather yours, 
Hervey?" 

"It is I, certainly, who am responsible for him, if that is 
what you mean," Captain Barrington had replied. But it 
was not what she meant, and he knew it; and even now a 
smile curved his resolute mouth as, having settled his stock 
before the mirror, he went to the window and looked out. 

His dressing room was one of the few rooms in Fairhaven 
which overlooked the little walled fruit garden at the 
side of the house. However, it was not his espaliers that 
he was contemplating now. On the plot of grass in the 
middle was a couch, and by it a book lying face down¬ 
wards. But the occupant of the couch was at this moment 
standing meditatively in front of a laden plum tree which 
was displaying its treasures against the warm stone of 
the wall. 

Raoul called this little fruit-ringed garden his pare or 
316 


JULIANA’S IMMORTELLES 


317 


sheepfold, for here he and his sofa had been installed for 
the last two afternoons, on condition that he never strayed 
out of the enclosure—he was under engagement not even to 
return to the house without first ascertaining that the coast 
was clear. But, so successfully had his presence a,t Fairhaven 
been concealed, that, beyond taking certain obvious precau¬ 
tions, one did not trouble much about the prospect of dis¬ 
covery. From his window Hervey watched the selection of 
two of the ripest plums, and the convalescent’s slow return 
with them to his couch, on which he stretched himself out 
luxuriously. Exactly a month to-day since he had been 
smuggled into this house. How Hervey was going to get 
him away when he was fit for it he had not yet thought out; 
he only knew that he had no desire to hasten that moment. 
How odd that seemed! 

He left the window, and had drawn on one riding boot 
when there was a knock, and Mrs. Jeremy appeared, an¬ 
nouncing that a lady and gentleman from London desired 
to see him on business, and were at this moment in the 
morning room. She held out a tray, and Hervey, taking 
up the cards which lay thereon, read with puzzled eyes the 
names of Viscount Fulgrave and the Honourable Juliana 
Forrest. 

It was not hope which had brought Juliana to Stowey. 
She had been driven here, after twenty-four haunted, miser¬ 
able days, by the longing to hear on the spot what details 
were known of the tragedy witnessed, as she gathered, by 
the coast guards, and, if M. des Sablieres’ body had by this 
time been recovered, to be sure that it had had fitting burial. 
For in his death, as in the last painful months of his short 
life, she felt that she was the only person in England to care 
for him. 

Yet, on the other hand, the very shortness of that life was 
due to her, to her initial waywardness, which had set in 
motion the whole fatal train of events, as the unthinking 
loosening of a pebble may end by causing a whole cliff wall 
to slide downward in an avalanche of disaster. So acute 
and so persistent was her distress that her father finally 
snatched at any method of alleviating it; and though he 
thought the present method both morbid and inconvenient 


‘‘MR. ROWL’’ 


318 

—for he had threatenings of gout at the moment—he of¬ 
fered to take her down to Stowey on this melancholy errand. 
They had arrived this afternoon, and made their way to the 
coast-guard station, only to be told, in the soft Devon 
tongue, that it was not the coast guards, but Captain Bar¬ 
rington up to Fairhaven who had seen the Frenchman 
drown, and that no, the body had not come ashore yet, 
likely never would. So to Fairhaven they had come. 

And in the pleasant, casemented room where she was to 
hear the last act of the tragedy she had written Juliana sat 
and wondered whether this old retired naval captain (such 
her father had said he must certainly be) would show an¬ 
noyance at their coming; would refuse details, or . . . 

give too many. And as she heard the door handle turn she 
felt a sudden doubt of her courage, a sudden wonder at her 
temerity. . . . 

Compared to the veteran she had expected, the somewhat 
stem, good-looking man who came in was young. But, 
young or old, those eyes had seen Raoul des Sablieres die 
. . . and she could not take her own from him all the 

time that her father made themselves and their errand 
Imown, and asked Captain Barrington for details. “The 
. . . the body, I gather, has not been recovered?^' he 
finished. 

For all her mental anguish, Juliana could not avoid notic¬ 
ing the colour which mounted at that to Captain Barrington's 
face. 

“No," he said a little indistinctly. “I . . . I 

doubt if there is now any chance of it." He turned away— 
for he had not sat down—and mumnuing something about 
a draught, closed the casement window. Then, fixing a 
very clear and steady pair of eyes on Lord Fulgrave, he 
said: “You were sincerely interested in this young man, 
my Lord?" 

“Sincerely," replied his Lordship, with a glance at his 
daughter. “I did my best to obtain his release from the 
hul&. Had he not escaped and lost his life in so doing, I 
should have succeeded, for it appears that he had rendered 
a signal service to a British officer at Albuera, and the Trans¬ 
port Board were prepared to recommend him for an un¬ 
conditional cartel. But now, of course . . ." 


319 


JULIANA’S IMMORTELLES 

“A^ cartel!” exclaimed Captain Barrington in evident 
astonishment. ” He would have been released altogether? ” 

“That was certainly intended. He had saved the life 
of this officer—a major in the Third Foot. But before 
the Commissioners could take the necessary steps came the 
melancholy news of the young man’s death.” 

Why did Captain Barrington look so strange—so much 
more than merely surprised? But Juliana’s eyes, in her 
pain, wandered at last away from his face . . . only 
to encounter a sharper pang. From where she sat she 
could see the wide river that had drowned “Mr. Rowl,” 
all blue and sparkling under the September sky. Now 
she did not want to hear those details she had come to 
hear ... it hurt too deeply . . . she cared 

too much—^more, more than she Imew. Oh, why had she 
come? 

“You . . . you astonish me very much,” she heard 
Captain Barrington saying, and then he seemed to come to 
a stop. 

“ It is indeed very regrettable that the young man should 
no longer be alive to profit by this favour,” observed her 
father. 

“You are quite sure, my Lord, that it really would have 
been extended to him, had he lived?—Forgive my pertina¬ 
city!” 

“From what I was told, Sir, I feel convinced of it.” 

“Then-” began Captain Barrington, and stopped 

again. Suddenly he put a curious question. “My Lord, 
are you disposed to admit that there may be occasions when 
a man’s duty to his country conflicts with the claims of 
humanity?” 

“I suppose there may be such occasion,” replied his 
Lordship cautiously. 

“Then if, in the case of this young Frenchman, who is 
reported to have been drowned-” 

“Reported!” interjected Lord Fulgrave. “But was it 
not you yourself. Captain Barrington, who reported it? 
Was your report then based only on hearsay? 

“Yes, I did report it,” admitted Captain Barrington, “but 

-” He hesitated, and a spasm of relief darted through 

Juliana. He meant that he had not, after all, witnessed 


320 


MR. ROWL’’ 


the tragedy with his own eyes . . . and, after all, she 
need not hear of it. But the speaker was going on again: 

“If I were to tell you. Lord Fulgrave,” he said squarely, 
“that this young Frenchman had been rescued, hidden and 
cared for through a serious illness by an Englishman who 
ought no doubt to have made him over to the authorities, 
but who could not bring himself to do this, what would be 
your opinion of that man?’' 

But Lord Fulgrave had no opportunity of stating his 
opinion, for his daughter was on her feet, stretching out a 
hand to Hervey Barrington. “Is it true. Sir,” she im¬ 
plored , “ is it true, or only a possibility, that he is not . . .” 

Hervey turned to her. “It is quite true. Madam,” he 
replied soberly. “ He is alive and-’ ’ 

It was he who caught Miss Forrest as she swayed, trans¬ 
ferring her quickly to her father’s care, and ringing the bell 
violently for Mrs. Jeremy. Then supervened a period of 
the attentions of that good lady and smelling salts—at one 
moment there was even borne to Hervey’s nostrils, he hav¬ 
ing discreetly turned his back, the odious smell of burnt 
feathers; and during the time that he thus contemplated 
the Kestrel at her moorings, he lost any remaining doubts 
as to Miss Forrest’s identity. She was, of course, the 
unnamed lady of Raoul’s story; and it seemed hardly 
necessary for it to be apologetically whispered into his ear 
by her father, as it presently was, that the news of the 
young man’s being alive after all had proved too much for 
her, she having taken the sad affair so much to heart. 
Swoon and explanation, however, confirmed him in his 
resolve to remove the veil from his own conduct—or mis¬ 
conduct; he could not keep Raoul from these good friends of 
his and from the prospect of release because of the possi¬ 
bility of risk to himself. 

At last Miss Forrest, apologizing for her foolishness and 
the trouble she had caused, and declining Mrs. Jeremy’s 
suggestion that she should repose herself in Miss Barring¬ 
ton’s bedroom, appeared fully recovered, and Hervey caught 
her whisper: “Ask him. Papa—ask him how—^and where— 
and who . . .” And Lord Fulgrave obediently ap¬ 
proached him. 

“Will you tell us the rest. Sir? Who, for instance, is the 


JULIANA’S IMMORTELLES 


321 


man you spoke of, who showed so much charity? You 
need not be afraid of our ever breathing a word about his— 
humanity.” 

Hervey Barrington had timed round. “Thank you, my 
Lord, for the assurance. Since the man in question wears 
His Majesty’s uniforai he is doubly grateful for it. He has 
the honour of speaking to you at this moment.” 

Never in his life had he made so dramatic an announce¬ 
ment. “You, Sir!” exclaimed Lord Fulgrave. “Then you 
did not see him drown—you saved him!” 

“Yes,” said Hervey rather curtly (he did not love the 
histrionic). “What else would you have a man do?” 

“Quite so—^but you appear to have done a good deal 
more than that! Captain Barrington, I should esteem it a 
privilege-” He held out his hand. 

“This is a felon’s hand, my Lord,” said Hervey, and for 
the first time he smiled. 

“Tut, tut!” said the condemner of Greedy, and he 
wrung it. “And are we to understand that you have the 
young man still here, under your roof?” 

“Well, he is actually in the garden at this moment. I 
will have him summoned; or perhaps . . .” he hesi¬ 

tated. 

“I think you said. Sir,” put in Juliana, leaning forward, 
“that he had been ill?” 

“Yes, very ill, and he is still weak, though quite well 
again. If therefore his Lordship would give himself the 
trouble to come with me into the garden, the stairs being 
somewhat trying to a convalescent . . . Yet doubt¬ 
less Miss Forrest too would wish . . He looked 
from one to the other. 

Yes, Miss Forrest did wish, and announced herself as per¬ 
fectly able to accompany her father to the garden. Indeed, 
she had now the most lovely colour; so Hervey gave her his 
arm. And as they left the house she said to him in a low 
voice: “Captain Barrington, I hardly dare let myself believe 
it. Yet, since it must be true, how is one ever to thank 
you?” 

“By not sajdng a word about my action to any one. Miss 
Forrest,” replied Hervey Barrington, and lifted the latch 
of the little door in the wall. 


322 


MR. ROWL” 


‘"Raoul,” said Hervey's deep voice, penetrating a very 
fleeting dream, “here are two visitors to see you. Don't 
move—^they will excuse your not rising.” 

He stood back, and Raoul opened his eyes, half sleepy, 
half startled . . . and saw who one of them was. 

The colour rushed over his face, he made an inarticulate 
sound, and tried to get off the couch. But her companion 
—^he must still be half asleep, it could not really be Lord 
Wellington!—^prevented this disobedience by coming close 
and holding out his hand. 

“How do you do. Sir? I am exceedingly glad to learn 
that you are not drowned, as we thought. And here is my 
daughter, who is in the same case. We came to . . . 

ah . . . lay a wreath on your grave, and find—^most 

happily—that there is no necessity.” 

“Sir . . . my Lord . . .” stammered Raoul, 
utterly confused and dizzy. Whether this tall gentleman 
with the nose were real or a remnant of a dream, she was 
real, and was looking at him with a little rainbow of a smile. 
How could he answer coherently or speak to any one else 
. . . or even to her? And she said nothing, but only 

looked at him with that heavenly kindness. ^ 

Hervey had by now brought up a rustic chair. “Sit 
down, my dear,” said the gentleman, and Juliana obeyed. 
“Perhaps I ought to introduce myself,” he went on to the 
young man, “for your good friend here probably does not 
know that I have not previously had the pleasure of meeting 
you, though indeed you have been much in my thoughts 
these last months. I am Lord Fulgrave.” 

Again Raoul tried to get out thanks, again he failed to 
produce anything coherent. But Lord Fulgrave by no 
means waited for either. 

“And I may give myself the satisfaction of telling you. 
Sir,” he pursued, “since you are fortunately still alive, that 
I have been able, by following up a happy suggestion of 
my daughter's, based on something you once told her, to 
procure—^however, I think she shall inform you of that 
herself.” He seemed in high good humour—as indeed he 
was, on Juliana's account. “I see—ah—that you have 
some fine espaliers over there. Captain Barrington. Fruit¬ 
growing greatly interests me. . . . ” 


JULIANA’S IMMORTELLES 


323 


Hervey said something; and their voices receded . . . 
died out of the garden altogether. Between these four 
fruit-laden walls, under the blue roof, there was only Juliana 
Forrest . . . who had come all this way to see him. 
She had on a muslin gown the colour of an apricot, with 
little silver lines . . . she was not looking at him now, 
and a silence had fallen. Was she thinking of the close of 
their last meeting? As if he should ever presume on that 
angelic gift of hers! He slipped off the couch on to one 
knee, took her hand, and bending his head kissed it passion¬ 
ately, without words. 

For more than three weeks I have believed you drowned,^’ 
said Juliana in a little thread of a voice, and trembling. 

only heard just now, and the joy ... the re¬ 
lief-She turned her head away and put up her free 

hand to her eyes. 

''You thought that!” said Raoul in deep distress. "I 
hoped—I was almost sure you would not hear it. . . . 

I have longed to write to you, but there was Captain Bar¬ 
rington’s safety to consider.” 

Juliana Forrest turned her head back, careless that two 
tears were coursing down her face. And seeing him still 
kneeling there, so thin and altered—"Please, please, M. 
des Sablieres, lie down again! Indeed you should. . . . 

Oh, to please me!” 

To please her he would at least sit upon the couch. And 
indeed he felt a strange swimming in the head. Notre 
Dame de Bon Secours come to visit him ... or come 
to bury him? Perhaps he was dead and in Paradise already 
(only that seemed unlikely). But here certainly was a 
denizen of heaven. And he might—he must—address her. 

" I am grieved indeed that you should have heard that,” 
he said again, and stole another long look at her. ("But 
are you really?” asked a little voice within him. "If she 
had not heard it, she would not, probably, be here.”) 
"How did you learn it, Mademoiselle? Surely it was not 
in the newspapers? ” 

If Raoul was a prey to varied emotions, his visitor had to 
control even more varied. He whom less than an hour ago 
she was mourning as dead was alive, and was here within 
reach of her hand; and she had great news for him. Also, 


324 


“MR. ROWL’^ 


the last time they had met she had . . . But, in presence 
of matters so much more vital, that memory had scarcely 
room to raise its head and make her blush. 

“No, it was not in the newspapers,'' she answered. “I 
heard because—oh, M. des Sablieres, I have good news for 
you—the prospect of a cartel!" 

“What!" exclaimed Raoul, gripping the edge of the 
couch. 

j “ It is true," said Juliana seriously. “ But for your escape 
—^my doing—^you might be in France to-day. Even now, 
I suppose, it only needs your identification by this officer, 
and the Transport Office will recommend you for it." 

“Identification?" stammered the young man, his head 
whirling. “What officer?" 

“The officer whose life you saved at Albuera—^Major 
Brackenbury of the Buffs." 

' “ But—I never heard his name! And you. Mademoiselle, 

how did you know anything about him?" 

His amazement was very sweet to Juliana. At last she 
had accomplished on his behalf something that was not 
merely reparation. “That day by the stream," she began, 
.looking at him with a really radiant smile—and with that 
told him the whole story of the quest of Major Brackenbury 
■and his gratitude. 

! “My God!" said Raoul, gazing at her almost stupefied. 
“And you have done that for me—that too!" 
i But, after all, Juliana had been too lately and too long 
under the shadow of the misfortunes which she had brought 
upon him so easily to forget them. She looked away, and 
it was with rather an unsteady voice that she said: “'V^at- 
ever I do, I can never make up for the harm I have caused 
you. Even if you shortly receive your freedom, as I hope 
you will, nothing can give you back these last months, or 
make up to you for what you have suffered—through my 
,doing. All your life you will remember that the folly of an 
English girl sent you to—that." 

I “And that her unexampled courage and devotion saved 
me from it again," said Raoul, “—more than saved me! 
Oh, Miss Forrest, if you could only know how you appear 
to me, you would cease to torment yourself with this un¬ 
necessary remorse. You bring me this great gift, return 


JULIANA’S IMMORTELLES 


325 


to my own country, and you think I can have room in my 
heart for the shadow of a reproach? A vrai dire” he added, 
and his voice sank, '' I think that in my heart at this mo¬ 
ment there is room for only one feeling—^wonder at your 
incredible goodness in coming all this way to ask the last 
tidings of a poor prisoner who had crossed your path. . . * 
If I were the ghost I might be, Mademoiselle, and saw you 
standing at my grave, and though I knew, as I do know, 
living, that you had spent so much time, so much effort, so 
much gold to help me, still the immortelles in your hand 
would outweigh all else. You have come yourself, when 
you did not even know that I had a tongue to thank you!” 

With an emotion so contagious as this Juliana had never 
before been in contact. She turned a little pale. 

“You exaggerate, I think, M. des Sablieres,” she said in 
a rather troubled voice. “And let us discuss now how we 
are to proceed about the cartel. If you were to come back 
with my father and me to London-” 

“Come back with you!” exclaimed Raoul as if he had not 
heard aright. 

“You think it would not be safe?” asked Juliana, niis- 
taking his tone. ‘ ‘ But you have only to prove your identity 
—^you are practically a pardoned man!” 

Ah, would it be sie—in a different sense? To sit by her 
side for two days—to sleep under the same roof; it might be 
intoxicating, but would it be safe? Yet, had it meant 
Huntingdon Gaol, he would do it . . . if he were really 
to have the chance of it. . . . 

“I will discuss it with my father,” Juliana was going on. 
“ It seems to me that it would be the best plan.” She rose. 
“I think I hear him returning. We niight come again to¬ 
morrow to see you about it; we are staying at the ‘ Dolphin.' 
And I have so much to hear. You have been ill, and 
nursed here, by Captain Barrington—^not only ill, I see, 
but injured?” 

Raoul had bent his head. Why must she go? But if 
she came again to-morrow perhaps he could bear that this 
should end. 

“Yes, I have a great deal to tell you about Captain Bar¬ 
rington, and what I owe to him . . . and a great deal 
to hear too, if I may. It amazes me that you can have 


326 “MR. ROWL’^ 

found that officer—and it was nothing, what I did. Are 
you sure it is not a mistake? ” 

Juliana shook her head. “Major Brackenbury did not 
call it nothing, I assure you. Yes, Papa, I am ready."’ 

And Raoul walked in a dream beside her to the garden 
door, where Lord Fulgrave and his host were standing. 
Lord Fulgrave shook his hand. 

“I am sorry to see that sling. Sir,” he remarked. “But 
I hope it will be many a day before you have your foot in 
one, which is where mine will be to-morrow, I am afraid. 
Gout.” 

“In that case,” said Raoul, “how can I express my sense 
of your Lordship’s goodness in taking this journey?” 

“I am very glad I did,” responded his Lordship, looking 
at him kindly. “Yes, to-morrow. Captain Barrington, we 
will discuss ways and means for getting this young gentle¬ 
man his due.” 

“I shall have pleasure in waiting upon you, my Lord, as 
I suggested,” replied Hervey—and was instantly aware of a 
hard, almost vicious grip on his arm from behind. “ —Or,” 
he added hastily, “in welcoming you here.” 

“Yes, that would admit of a full council of war,” re¬ 
sponded Lord Fulgrave. “Provided that my enemy has 
not attacked me.—Till to-morrow, then, M. des Sabli- 
eres.” 

“—But you mustn’t show yourself yet, you know, my 
dear boy,” said Hervey quietly, putting a hand on Raoul’s 
shoulder, for the latter was manifesting every intention of 
escorting Miss Forrest to the carriage. 

“My faith! I was forgetting,” said Raoul, a trifle taken 
aback. “No, I suppose not. Au revoir, then. Made¬ 
moiselle.” 

It was as he raised her hand to his lips that the full mem¬ 
ory of their last parting came like a tide upon Juliana, dye¬ 
ing her face for a moment. Heaven grant he were not 
thinking of it too! . . . But surely the news she had 
brought must have obliterated the recollection! 

She went to the carriage hugging that quite illusory con¬ 
solation. 


CHAPTER III 
RELINQUISHING A DREAM 


At last he began to fear lest they should be discovered. . . . He 

therefore took passage in a ship to Suez.— Rasselas, chap. xv. 

When Hervey came back from escorting the visitors to their 
carriage the occupant of the pare was still standing just 
inside the garden door like a man in a trance. Hervey 
smiled at him. 

‘‘Well, Raoul?” 

“I am still . . . rather overwhelmed,” confessed 

Raoul—and he looked it. “Her coming like this . . . 

and the cartel. Have you heard of that? It’s like a 
conte de fees.” 

Hervey slipped his arm in his and began to lead him back 
to the couch. “ I don’t need to say how delighted I am, do 
I, my dear lad? But why have you never told me of this 
British officer at Albuera?” 

“ Because there was really nothing to tell. I kept a Polish 
lancer from spearing him, that was all. I never even knew 
his name. Aiid now it seems that, thanks to Miss Forrest’s 
good offices—and Lord Fulgrave’s, of course—I have merely 
to show myself to be sent back to France! It’s astound¬ 
ing!” 

It was not unnatural that he should go on in this vein for 
a little, and Hervey had no wish in the world to stop him; 
he was too rejoiced himself. Yet before long an unpleasant 
little thought was tapping like a woodpecker in his o\^ 
brain: “What is to become of me when my illegal share m 
this happy event is revealed? No one, not even the boy him¬ 
self, seems to be going to give a thought to that!” But 
he was ashamed of this selfish reflection, and, lest he should 
betray any preoccupation with his own safety, abstained 
from reminding the fugitive for the second time that he 
327 


328 


“MR. ROWL” 


o^ht not to show himself yet, merely announcing that, to 
his regret, he must hurry off to keep an appointment in 
Tawton. He should probably be back late. “So remem¬ 
ber Mr. Touchwood’s orders, Raoul,” he said as he left him; 
“bed at nine o’clock sharp. Pleasant dreams to you 
to-night!” 

Raoul did not feel sure about the night, but he had one 
here and now—an enchanting day-dream, in which Juliana 
sat beside him still, and he was able to say all the things he 
had left unsaid; and in which he thought at first much less 
of the great news which she had brought him than of to¬ 
morrow, when she would come again and he could gaze 
at her anew. 

But after a while he did think of it, absorbedly. Could it 
really be that he was practically a free man, about to be 
sent back to France, after all his struggles and shifts, by the 
British ^vemment itself? He saw the news arriving at 
Sablieres, and Maman reading his letter in her bedb^oom 
with the old-fashioned furniture, and running with it to his 
father in the library of the chateau, under the portrait of 
that forbidding-looSdng ancestor in the buff coat who had 
fought with Turenne. And then they would both tell 
Adrienne, perhaps in the orchard, where she would be super¬ 
vising the harvesting of those apple trees that he and she 
used so assiduously to climb. . . And then, a little 
later, there would be his mother in his arms, his father say¬ 
ing that he was not ashamed of him, and Adrienne hearing 
how he had impersonated her. . . . And to make this 
dream true he had only to present himself at the Transport 
Office to meet this grateful major of the Third Foot and es¬ 
tablish his identity. . . . 

Raoul, lying with his hands behind his head, suddenly 
became so still that the robin which he had been trying to 
tame did alight for a moment on his foot, and cocked its 
head at him. But the young man never even saw that this 
signal favour had been accorded to him. A thought like a 
dark cloud had suddenly obscured the golden horizon. It 
was not so simple as all that 1 How could he go and present 
himself at the Transport Office and establish his identity 
without terribly injuring Hervey Barrington? 

A month ago he had been reported drowned—by Captain 


RELINQUISHING A DREAM 329 

Barrington himself. How was it that he had not been 
drowned, and where had he been all the time? He would 
not tell the authorities, of course—not even if they refused 
the cartel in consequence—^but the danger was that they 
would find out. And if they did, they would find, not only 
that Captain Barrington had concealed him for weeks, but 
that he had deliberately told a lie to cover his action—and 
told it in black and white in an official report! The dis¬ 
covery could hardly harm him, since even at the time he 
was destined for a pardon, but for Hervey Barringtcm it 
would mean utter niin. And was he to go lightly oft to 
!^ance and leave him to that? 

Raoul suddenly became very nervous. ^ Suppose someone 
were to look over the wall now and see him—suppose some 
inquisitive stranger were to come into the garden? To 
think that he had only been stopped by Captain Bamngton 
from walking openly out to Lord Fulgrave’s carnage! He 
shivered, rang the bell at his elbow, and got off the couch; 
and, when Mrs. Jeremy appeared in answer to this sum¬ 
mons, demanded to enter the house on the plea that it was 
getting cold; on which he was led back and scolded for not 
having rung earlier. But the offer of a fire he refused, say¬ 
ing that he should soon go to bed; and so laboriously as- 
cended the stairs to the morning room. , , 

Once alone there he took up a book, threw it down, ^t 
in the window seat, looked at the estuary, the K^trel, the 
opposite shore rosy with the sunset. This must be tall^ 
over . . . but with whom? Hervey would say, Go 

and claim your freedom; never mind about me. Juliana 
Forrest, who had brought it to him, would hardly urge him 
to throw it away. . . . Oh, what was he to do. 

For some twenty minutes he sat there thinking it over, 
till all at once he heard Jeremy’s heavy foot pounding rap¬ 
idly up the stairs, and the coxswain put his head in. 

“Oh, you’re here. Sir? I-” , 

He was out of breath. “ Come m, said Raoul from the 
window seat. “What is it?” Then, seeing his alarmed 
discomposure, he got up. “Not an accident to Captam 

“Won*!" 

and dropped his voice. “Mr. Rowl, they ve heard I 


330 


MR. ROWL” 


No need to ask what, or who ''they’' were. "Great 
God!” said Raoul. "Are they after me? But I am-” 

"Nay, not after you'' interrupted Jeremy contemptu¬ 
ously. "After him, because of you! . . . When I were 
out this afternoon,” he went on, still breathlessly, "I fell in 
wi’ one of the coast guards and stopped to pass the time o' 
day. And after some talk he says, 'Sims to me there'm a 
great interest took sudden in that French prisoner as was 
drowned here last month,' says he. 'Why, whatever dii ee 
mean?' says I, feeling like a man do when he see a squall 
coming sudden out of the nor’east and him carrying too 
much sail—‘whatever dii ee mean, Jan?' 'Why,' says he 
then, ‘only this afternoon there was a lady and gentleman 
from Lunnon askin' about him, and we sends them on to 
Cap'n Barrington, as saw it happen, and blow me if now 
on top o' that there ain’t a Navy lootenant asking the 
very same questions, only more of 'em, where the prisoner 
come from, just whereabouts he were drowned, whether it 
was thought there was any smugglers aiding and abetting of 
him—and so on. So I says to him: ‘You go and see Cap'n 
Barrington, Sir; he’ll tell you all there is to know.’ ‘Yes, 
I’m going to see Cap’n Barrington in any case,’ says he.” 

"Well?” asked Raoul, who was oddly breathless too, as 
Jeremy paused. 

"Arter that,” resumed Jeremy, "I come back as fast as 
I can and finds out from Hannah that no Navy lootenant 
ain’t arrived. . . . Ah, but don’t you go flattering 
yourself, Mr. Rowl—he’s been here right enough, five min¬ 
utes ago!” 

"And what happened? ” asked Raoul, feeling slightly sick. 

“He asks for Cap’n Barrington; I says he’m away from 
Stowey, won’t be back till late. At that he looks a’most as 
if he meant to wait, but I weren’t going to let him into the 
house. So he says, looking grimlike, that he'll come again 
in the morning, seeing as he must see Cap’n Barrington in 
person; nor he wouldn’t leave no message. Had some kind 
of a paper in his hand too, but he put it back in his pocket 
and goes off, looking . . . well, as an officer looks when 
it's a matter of the bosun's mate and the cat-o’-nine tails.” 

" He was probably some friend or acquaintance of Captain 
Barrington’s,” urged Raoul, though he did not believe it. 


331 


RELINQUISHING A DREAM 

Captain Barrington’s coxswain snorted. ‘‘Precious few 
of them as I don’t know by sight, one way or t’other. And 
moreover, when I asks him if he’ll leave his name he says, 
No, it’s not known to Cap’n Barrington.—No, no. Sir, he’m 
come from the Admiralty to make enquiries; perhaps to 
take the Cap’n back to Lunnon. Take my word for it, 
they’ve heard something —else why should he a’ gone asking 
all these questions of the coast guards? and now the Cap’n’s 
got to answer for it all!” 

Raoul sat down again, turning whiter and whiter. 

“I’ve always said,” went on this new Jeremy, now so 
fiercely loquacious, “that he didn’t ought to have done it 
—and him as it were under their Lordships’ displeasure 
already, though he was acquitted at the court-martial— 
and quite right too, for if ever--” 

His hearer was on his feet. “What in God’s name are 
you talking about? What court-martial?” 

“He haven’t never told you why he’s on half-pay—on 
the shelf?” 

“I didn’t know he was on half-pay. I thought he was 
on leave—^you gave me to understand so!” 

“Leave! an officer like him—^in wartime!” said Jeremy 
scornfully. “No, he’m eating his heart out these two 
years, and all along of the Suffolk lost off the Scillies through 
no fault of his; and if ever there had been a chance of his 
getting another ship, as was always said he would, because 
he left the court without any sort o’ blame being put upon 
him, well, it don’t look much like it now, do it, harbouring 
a PYench prisoner and lying about it, as I’ve always said 
he were crazed to do? And now, if it’s been found out-’ ’ 

He made a short dramatic pause, during which Raoul 
subsided once more on to the window seat and put his head 
against the mullion, speechless. So this was the explana¬ 
tion of the sad sternness of Captain Barrington’s face in 
repose. And, for his sake, he had weighted the scale against 
himself still further. . . . 

“They always say as it’s bad luck to save a man from 
drowning,” resumed the sailor darkly. “He’m sure to do 
you an injury in the end!” 

Raoul got up, steadying himself by the sill. “Jeremy, 
that’s Captain Barrington’s sailing-boat, isn’t it? Eh hien^ 


332 


“MR. ROWL’^ 


the moment it is dark you can start for some place on the 
coast—^anywhere—^and just turn me out there . . . as 

long as I am out of this house and no one sees me go nothing 
can be proved.’' 

There was a feverish flush on his cheek. “You’d not get 
far,” said Jeremy, eying him dubiously. 

“That would not matter so long as I was not here!” 

Jeremy considered a moment, “No, not without Cap¬ 
tain Barrington’s orders I couldn’t do that!” 

“But, you fool,” said Raoul impatiently, “he would 
never give them. Don’t you know him better than that? 
This must be done unknown to him, before he returns.” 

“But he’d soon see the Kestrel was gone,” objected Jer¬ 
emy. “And a sailing-boat’s easy tracked by other folk.” 

“Then what are we to do?” asked Raoul. “You want 
to get rid of me at once, I suppose, just as much or more 
than I want to go? But I cannot walk far—^it is no good 
pretending it. I cannot hire a conveyance here. Couldn’t 
you row me somewhere in the little boat?” 

“The skiff? I’ve got her bottom up in the garden for 
caulking of her seams—she’m leaking a bit—couldn’t go 
rowing no distance in her.” 

“Get another boat, then, from somewhere!” 

“And have to answer a mort of questions! . . . No, 
I’ll see what can be done to the skiff atween now and dark, 
and maybe I can get her shipshape enough to put you across 
the river. Sir—that would be better than nothing.” 

Raoul put his hand to his head, which was beginning to 
ache. 

“Yes, and I must go after Captain Barrington’s return, 
not before. Then he will not find out imtil morning. 
Don’t let Mrs. Jeremy know either. . . . What time 
do you think?” 

Jeremy reflected deeply. “ There’s no moon to speak of. 
Sim rises about half past five. I’ll have to slip out without 
waking Hannah, for she’d certain sure stop me. ... I 
should say as near three o’clock as possible. Sir.” 

“Very well; and try and bring me some food to take with 
me. I will save what I can from my supper. I must have 
a map of some kind too; do you know where Captain Bar¬ 
rington keeps his?” 


RELINQUISHING A DREAM 333 

But Jeremy did not know. “And where would you be 
thinking of making for, Sir?’' 

“Upon my soul, I don’t know,” answered Raoul, and 
laughed. 

When Jeremy was gone he hunted vainly in the bookcase 
and drawers for a map, and then fell to writing a note for 
Hervey; for there was no point in leaving him in the dark 
as to why he was running away. He wrote it stumblingly; 
it soimd^ to him cold and dry compared with what he felt 
towards him, and the message he asked Hervey to convey 
to Miss Forrest more inadequate still. He supposed he 
should leave this note on his pin-cushion like a heroine of 
romance. 

Acutely depressed, he went upstairs, undressed, and got 
into bed; he must not excite Mrs. Jeremy’s suspicions. ^ It 
was the last time she would bring him a meal; the last time 
he should have her comfortable presence beside him. And 
apparently he was not to enjoy even that bittersweet con¬ 
solation, for it was his fellow conspirator who brought him 
his supper. 

“ I got Hannah to let me do it,” he whisper^, so absorbed 
by intrigue that the bowl of soup nearly slid off the tray 
on to its destined recipient. “Now if you’ll be ready. Sir, 
from two o’clock onwards. I’ll come so soon as I can give 
Hannah the slip. I’ve bin overhauling the sldff-” 

The door opened. “What are you worrying Mr. Rowl 
about that boat for?” asked the voice of his spouse, as she 
came in after all. “He isn’t interested in that. Now, 
Mr. Rowl, you eat up your soup, or you won’t be looking 
your best if the beautiful young lady comes to see you again 
to-morrow—^you stayed up too long as it was. . . . 

What are you waiting for, Jeremy?” 

Rolling a conspiratorial eye towards the bed, John Jeremy 
reluctantly departed.—Oh yes, it would be fimny, if it were 
not otherwise. . . . Raoul obediently consumed his 

soup, but his eyes followed Mrs. Jeremy as she went and 
pulled to the window curtains. “I sha’n’t bring your 
breakfast till a bit later to-morrow,” she annoimced. “No 
good comes of invalids being waked too early.” Behind 
her back the invalid smiled a pale smile. 

Presently she came and stood by him. “Well, my dear. 


334 


‘‘MR. ROWL’’ 


and a beautiful young lady she is indeed.—What's that 
under your pillow— bread f 

“I . . . I thought I might be hungry in the night," 
muttered Raoul shamefacedly. 

“My dear life, don’t put it there! you’ll have nasty crumbs 
all down the bed!" She rescued the slice. “Leave it on 
the table, covered over . . . but don’t let me hear 

of your being awake in the night to eat it!’’ 

“No, very well; you shall not hear of it,’’ promised her 
charge; on which she tucked him in, saying: “Now, go to 
sleep—for I wouldn’t keep awake for the Captain if I was 
you—and dream of your visitors!’’ 

“Mrs. Jeremy,’’ said Raoul, “will you kiss me?’’ 

“Well, I never!’’ exclaimed Mrs. Jeremy. Then she saw 
that he was not joking or near it. “What’s the matter 
with you this evening? . . . Well, there, my dear,’’ 
she added quite simply, “to tell truth, I’ve often thought 
of doing it . . . and I daresay the beautiful young 
lady wouldn’t mind.’’ 

After the salute and her departure Raoul did blow out the 
candle and try to go to sleep while he could, but kaleido¬ 
scopic visions of past and future kept forming and reforming 
in his brain, till at last one dominated the rest and stayed 
—^Juliana Forrest coming to this house to-morrow, full of 
her generous plans, to find him fied in the night with 
scarcely a word, the safety she had brought him after such 
long endeavours fiung away. Would she understand that 
he must do it? Surely, surely; her past conduct showed it. 
Yet, after all, she was a woman, and it would seem an 
affront to her to find him gone . . . and gone whither? 
To claim his freedom, in such haste that he could not wait 
to see her again? No, it was intolerable that she should 
think that, when, as far as he could see, he never would be 
able to claim it because of Captain Barrington; when indeed, 
if he were recaptured in the next few days—and the chances 
of that were about ten to one—he would certainly be taken 
back to the hulks. 

But he must explain this more fully than in his message; 
he must write a letter to Juliana also. He relit the candle, 
found writing materials, began, and then paused miserably. 
Which would be worse for her to hear, that he, throwing 


RELINQUISHING A DREAM 335 

away the pardon she had so miraculously won for him, was 
going to allow himself, most probably, to be taken back to 
the inferno from which she had rescued him, or that he 
was going to attempt to leave England without ever seeing 
her again? 

Sitting up in his bed the harassed young man groaned and 
ran his hand through his hair. His conduct would surely 
appear to her unpardonable. Nevertheless, though dis¬ 
tracted, he did not waver; he had no choice but to act thus 
and slay his hopes. . . . Hopes of what? He had 

none; it was only that he would give ten years of his life to 
see her again. ... At any rate, the most sensible thing 
was to explain clearly what he was about to do, and why, 
and ask her to try to forgive him. He set to work, and grad¬ 
ually the pencil ran on hotfoot; when he saw how much he 
had written he was astonished, and without reading it over 
he thrust it under his pillow, blew out the candle and, lying 
hastily down, closed his eyes, for he had heard Hervey's 
step on the stair, and could not trust himself to speak to 
him. 

The door opened softly, and Captain Barrington, shading 
a candle with his hand, came in, while Raoul lay motionless, 
watching him under his lashes. He crept on tiptoe to the 
bed, as careful as one who fears to wake a child; stood over 
him a moment studying him; then he and the candle van¬ 
ished toward the historic cupboard. In another nioment 
he came back with something white hanging over his arm, 
put the candle down, and proceeded to arrange this white 
object over RaouFs feet. Apparently it was the coverlet 
off Miss Lavinia's bed. 

RaouI^s heart went out to him in an almost painful im¬ 
pulse. No, decidedly he could not speak to him. . . . 

If only he had it in his power to make him more than the 
negative return for all his goodness which he was about to 
make. At least he would make that willingly—he did, he 
did, even though the cost was so heavy in regret, in relin¬ 
quishment. . . . But what is it to relinquish a dream¬ 

less than a dream? Hervey Barrington had risked for him 
something much more solid than that. 

“Good-bye, my dear Barrington,” he said within himself. 
“God bless you—and give you your heart's desire!” 


CHAPTER IV 

WHAT MISS LAVINIA BROUGHT HOME 

“Since, then, not suspicion but fondness has detected you, let me not 
lose the advantage of my discovery.”— Rasselas, chap. xiv. 

If you feel (and feel rightly) that part of the glamour of 
mushrooms is the finding of them, then, in any district 
where their habitat is known to others, you must get up 
early to secure this enjoyment and them. And that is why 
Miss Lavinia Barrington, who adored both, left her little 
house, armed with a basket, at a quarter before six on this 
fee but misty September morning, and betook herself to 
the high, dew-drenched meadows on the banks of the river. 

A couple of miles or so down stream on the farther side the 
port of Stowey still showed half asleep, though a few un¬ 
wavering columns of smoke were beginning to testify to 
certain household activities. In the next field, which had 
just been ploughed, gulls were walking along the furrows 
among the rooks, but these winged creatures, as intent upon 
their breakfast as Miss Lavinia upon hers, were the only 
signs of life. Nobody else, to her satisfaction, was out after 
mushrooms this morning. 

Or was there someone? The meadow which she had 
selected was rather like a green sheet pinned out insecurely 
between its fringe of copse at either end, and sagging into a 
hollow in the middle. And in the nearer copse—^which was 
also that nearer to Stowey—Miss Barrington distinctly 
heard sticks crack underfoot. She glanced lE^owards it, and 
the crackling instantly stopped. Probably a poacher, which 
she did not mind, because he would have ambitions above 
mushrooms. 

But some ten minutes later, when Miss Lavinia, who 
worked methodically, was harvesting at the other side of 
the field, though on the same slope, she saw a man come out 
336 


WHAT MISS LAVINIA BROUGHT HOME 337 

of the copse at the point where she had already heard the 
sticks snap,.and begin to descend the field, keeping close to 
the hedge which ran between it and its ploughed neighbour. 
If he was a poacher, thought Miss Barrington, looking at 
him idly across the width of the meadow, he was remarkably 
well dressed for one, and he had no gun. No, he was no 
poacher; he was a gentleman—a young man too—and his 
walk almost suggested that he was drunk, which was possi¬ 
ble, though imlikely so early in the morning. With this 
peculiar gait he proceeded down the slope; but when he was 
faced with the uphill gradient, it was evidently too much 
for his legs; he stopped, lurched, and, catching sight of a 
stile in the hedge, went and sat down hastily on the lower 
step, leaning his head forward in his hands. On this Miss 
Barrington, deciding that he was not d^k but indisposed, 
charitably started across the field to him. But before she 
got very near he evidently heard her coming, and, leaving 
the stile, started as hard as he could up the slope in front 
of him. ^ - - 

Stop! ” cried Miss Barrington. “ Stop! I want to help 
you!” But, despite his obvious difficulty in walking, her 
quarry pushed on up the rise as though a fury were after 
him, and making his way through its sparse hedge disap¬ 
peared in the thicket at the top. 

Miss Barrington had, however, gained on hmi so much 
that she was in this refuge the moment after; and there he 
was, leaning against a young sycamore, his back to her, 
gasping. ... , 

Are you ill, young man? ” asked Miss Lavinia, approach¬ 
ing him. ''Let me-” 

He half turned, as though to ward her off, and she saw 
who it was. "Heavens above! Mr. Rowl!” 

Mr. Rowl stared at her without sp^h. For G^ s 
sake sit down,” said Miss Lavinia hastily. She looked to 
see him pitch forward at her feet, his face was so a-shy. 
"There, that^s better.” For, almost sliding do^ the 
trunk, he had let himself subside, and sat down on the dead 
leaves below, half supported by one hand. , , , 

‘q ... I am ...” he said, 9 penmg and shut¬ 
ting his eyes several times in succession. "I am try¬ 
ing . . His head drooped. 



338 


MR. ROWL” 


' ‘‘Yes. Never mind/' said Miss Lavinia, wishing that 
she carried smelling-salts. "'You are running away, I 
know. But you need not have run from me. Just sit there 
a little." Very tactfully she supplemented the half support 
of the tree with an arm, so insensibly indeed that she flat¬ 
tered herself he did not know it, and at the same time she 
laid a speculative finger on the furiously bounding pulse 
in the nearest wrist. 


"'We must go on, Sarrelouis," murmured the collapsed 
fugitive. "Oh! I beg your pardon!" He had raised his 
head, and was now looking at his companion with startled 
eyes. "How did I-” 

"You came on your legs," said Miss Barrington, with¬ 
drawing her arm. "Most unwisely, I should say. How¬ 
ever, here you are. . . . You grew tired of Fairhaven, 
perhaps?" 


Raoul shifted himself to get his shoulders fairly against 
the tree. He had discarded his sling, but was evidently 
chary of using his left arm. "I was afraid that Captain 
Barrington was in danger because of my presence. So 
. . . I left." 

^ " Admirably succinct," commented Miss Barrington, 
sitting back on her heels, and even in that position retaining 
all her dignity. "And may I ask where you are going?" 

Raoul dropped his head. "I don't very well know," he 
admitted, fingering the leaves on one side of him. " I could 
not procure a map, and I find that I cannot walk far." 

"You surprise me!" remarked Miss Lavinia. "'At any 
rate, you are now coming home to my cottage to help me 
eat these mushrooms. The distance is not great." 

"Oh, no, I could not do that," said Raoul quickly. 

""I assure you I am not entirely unprotected," observed 
Miss Lavinia with great gravity. "I have a maid and a 
gardener." 

But Raoul looked at her without a smile. 

"'And I have not been hiding you," she went on ""—if 
that IS what is troubling you. Are you not hungry?" 

"" Yes," avowed the young man, and his glance fell on the 
basket. You would let me go on afterwards?" 

^^You talk as if I had captured you!" 

But I think you have," said the runaway, and his mouth 


WHAT MISS LAVINIA BROUGHT HOME | 339 

did twitch a little. I must say that it is not easy to get 
away from your family, Miss Barrington T' 

“Come, that's more like yourself," thought his captress. 
“Yes," she said aloud, “I expect you will soon have my 
brother on your track." 

Raoul shook his head. '^He does not know. . . . 
Perhaps," he pursued, beginning to struggle to his feet, 
“the explanation is that I am not very good at escaping." 

“Yet one way and the other," said Miss Lavinia, assisting 
him, “you have certainly had enough practice. I think 
that for the peace of this country it is time you had your 
exchange." 

“But I believe that I have got it," returned the young 
man casually. “ I heard yesterday. A—a pardon, in fact. 
But I cannot claim it." 

“And why not, pray? 

“Because the authonties would be almost sure to find 
out where I had been these last weeks. I would sooner 
yes, sooner go back to the hulks than bring disaster on 
Captain Barrington. As it is, I am afraid the Admiralty 
has got wind of something; a naval officer came demanding 
him yesterday when he was out, and is coming again this 
morning, so I got Jeremy to put me across the river before 
it was light, and I must get farther away I musty Miss 
Barrington! Perhaps I could hire a horse . . . 

Yes, yes," said the lady, we will see about all that after 
breakfast, and you shall tell me more about this officer. 
For you can trust me to be alive to my brother s danger, 

can't you?" , . ^ -u j 

“Yes," said Raoul, looking at her m a rather bewildered 

way. But-" 

“But for the rest of your life you will distrust women, 

you mean?" , , i ^ 4 . 

“No, no!" said Raoul hastily, and no doubt it was to 
prove his confidence in the sex, as well as because the ground 
seemed so unstable, that he took her arm with no more than 
a half-hearted protest, and they moved together out of the 

little wood. _ . , , 

Susan, Miss Barrington's maid, was a good deal surpnsed 
when she was told that there would be a young gentlenian 
to breaMast, but, as she never thought of questioning her 


340 


“MR. ROWL’^ 


mistress's orders, it was with only a mild wonder why a 
visitor should arrive so early that she cooked the mush¬ 
rooms. And when she had her first sight of him, lying 
back, very pale, in Miss Barrington's own easy chair, she 
decided that the young gentleman had arrived by sea, and 
had not yet recovered from that devastating experience. 

Raoul was indeed so much at the end of his tether by the 
time he arrived at Woodbine Cottage, that his hostess for¬ 
bade him to utter a word until he had eaten and drunk. 
Not till then did she ask how he had heard of his “pardon." 

“Lord Fulgrave has been good enough to interest himself 
in my case," said her visitor with a slight increase of colour. 
“He came to Fairhaven yesterday, and-" 

“Who?" asked Miss Barrington. “Lord Fulgrave— 
Frederick Forrest?" 

“I . . . yes, I suppose his name is Forrest," an¬ 

swered Raoul. “You know him. Miss Barrington?" 

“I knew him," said Miss Barrington, smiling at memories 
of her own. Poor Frederick ... she was said to have 
broken his heart. “ Yes, I knew him—a hundred years ago. 
And so he came down to Devonshire to call on you?" 

“Not exactly," replied the young Frenchman. “I think 
it was rather to erect a tombstone to me. They thought I 
was drowned, you see." 

“Who is 'they'?" asked Miss Lavinia like a shot. “I 
thought Lady Fulgrave was dead these twenty years." 

“Lord Fulgrave was accompanied by his daughter," ex¬ 
plained Raoul, striving to give this announcement an air 
of small importance. 

“Oh, indeed!" said Miss Barrington. “May I repeat 
your question: Do you know her?" 

The colour in the face of her vis-4-vis was sufficient 
answer. “I . . . she . . . it is she who . . . 
I mean-" 

“You mean that you are betrothed?" 

Raoul nearly leapt from his seat. “Miss Barrington, 
what are you saying! I mean that she has done for me 
. . . no, there are no words to say all that she has done 
—contrived my escape from the hulks—poured out money 
on my behalf—and now has got me a cartel-" 

“Well, my dear Mr. Rowl," said Miss Lavinia, “then I 



WHAT MISS LAVINIA BROUGHT HOME 341 


think there only remains one thing for her to do to complete 
her good work—and that is to marry you!” 

Instead of colouring this time the young man on the other 
side of the breakfast table turned rather white. ''I know 
that you are only jesting, Miss Barrington, but out of regard 

for Miss Forrest I would ask you-” 

''Yes, yes,” interrupted his hostess. "I have a vulgar 
wit, my dear Mr. Rowl; my brother implied the same on the 
night of your first arrival. But I can appreciate your deli¬ 
cacy. We will not consider then the procurer of the cartel, 
only the fact. May I ask what it is for?” 

Raoul briefly told her. "But, as I say, I cannot claim 


it ” 

*"Did you say that to Miss Forrest?—It would be en¬ 
couraging news for her after all her efforts.” 

No doubt Miss Barrington told herself that she was being 
cruel only to be kind, for she must have known from RaouVs 
face that she was being cruel. 

" I did not think of it at the moment, he said. He was 
pricking the tablecloth with a fork. "But I cannot bring 

ruin on Captain Barrington, even-” He stopped, and 

the prongs of the fork ran right through the damask. 

"My dear boy,” said Miss Lavinia warmly, '—you must 
pardon the term, for you might well be my son, you know— 
I assure you that I appreciate your self-sacnfice on my 
brother's behalf. But I think so much abnegation is not, 
perhaps, necessary. Listen. I suggest that you present 
Yourseli at the Transport Office, either not saying a word 
of where you have been since your supposed drownmg, or 
making up a story of having been, let us say, cast up at 
some lonely spot on the coast, and cared fw there by some 
unnamed poor people whom it is not worth the Govern¬ 
ments while to prosecute. Besid^, it is no crime to care 
for a half-drowned man, and they m no way help^ you to 
escape from the country. As soon as you were ^eU enough 
to do so you left them; you don t look^ 
bandaged wrist too—that doubt can be cast on that state- 
S How is the Transport Office gomg to disprove any 

^ Raoul, with Sl* elbow on the table, had been listening 
attentively. " I should also have to account for the manner 




342 


“MR. ROWL” 


in which I first heard of my good fortune. . . . Yes, 
perhaps. . . . But it depends a great deal on what 

errand this officer has come to Fairhaven.’’ 

“Well, that I can soon find out,’' returned Miss Barring¬ 
ton, getting up. “I will drive over to Stowey at once and 
see—if you will give me your word to remain here? Parole 
d'honneur, Monsieur le Capitaine —or else, the coal cellar!” 

A brief smile flickered over her prisoner’s face. “You 
leave me no choice. Miss Barrington. I give you my parole, 
till you return. Yes,” he added meditatively, “I could 
always refuse to accept the cartel imless they promised 
not to make investigations about my whereabouts.” 

“I am glad,” said Miss Barrington, “to see that you are 
open to reason. Our first step is certainly to find out about 
this messenger of doom from the Admiralty. I will order 
my pony cart. Incidentally my brother will be glad to hear 
where you are, I fancy. You say you made John Jeremy 
put you across the river? I am sorry for him!” 

“Jeremy is a faithful soul,” said Raoul. “All along he 
has thought of his master’s interests, not of mine, and quite 
rightly too.” 

“Yes, but you may be sure that his master won’t hold 
that an excuse. There seem to be a good many martyr¬ 
doms over this affair of yours, Mr. Rowl!” 

Raoul sighed and studied the carpet. He was much de¬ 
pressed. Miss Lavinia looked at him keenly and added, 
“Nor are martyrs always of the male sex, you know.” 

He looked up, startled. “Oh, Miss Barrington! But 
you know that it is not my wish to stay here and perhaps 
involve you too. Give me back my parole!” 

“Never in life,” said his hostess, tugging at the bell-pull. 
“You are too slippery. But you did not really think I 
was referring to myself, did you?—Susan, tell Jacob to har¬ 
ness the pony at once.—Now, come back to this comfortable 
chair, Mr. Rowl. By the way, have you the address of this 
major who owes you his life and must needs identify you? ” 

“He is quartered, I believe, at Canterbury.” 

“You will have to communicate with him.” 

“Yes, I suppose so.” 

“Unless Miss—Lord Fulgrave does so.” 

“I cannot expect Lord Fulgrave to take any further 


WHAT MISS LAVINIA BROUGHT HOME 343 


trouble when I have behaved in what must seem to him 
such an extraordinary way/' 

“No, perhaps you can’t,” said Miss Lavinia imcompro- 
misingly. She studied him again as he stood before her, and, 
between her liking for him and her feeling that she owed 
him some reparation for the past, resolved to take a hand 
in his destiny to better purpose than last time. For all 
that, she went on to point out that, since he could find 
Major Brackenbury, he was in a position to carry through 
the busmess of the cartel without Lord Fulgrave’s assistance 
at all. 

But this truth seemed very little to exhilarate her visitor. 
Biting his lip, he merely looked broodingly at her. 

“Well, I am going to put on my bonnet and set off,” 
said Miss Barrington. “I propose that you sit quietly in 
this chair with a book till I return. Now remember that I 
have ^our word of honour that you will not give me the 
slip!” 

“You don’t think, surely, Miss Barrington,” said poor 
Raoul in a tone of anguish, “that I wanted to give—anybody 
—^theslip?” 

“Except your friends in the Ganges, no, I don’t. But 
you have an uncontrollably Quixotic turn of mind, I’m 
afraid.” She patted his arm as if, however, this quality 
did not displease her, put cushions in the chair, a book in 
his hand, and departed. 

And Raoul sat in her chair, leaning his head against the 
back, frankly wretched. Once again he had made a mess 
of his affairs—a supreme mess. But, once again, he did 
not see how he could have done differently.^ Yet if only he 
could see Juliana for five minutes to explain—a letter was 
so doubtful an ambassador I But it seemed to him that she 
would never listen to an explanation after such a,n affront. 
He knew, none better, of what she was capable with regard 
to a man who had displeased her. ^ ^ v . 

But, if he did see her for five minutes, if she did listen- 
yes, even if the arrangement shadowed forth yesterday m 
the Garden of Eden were carried out, and he went up to 
London with her and her father to claim the cartel, 
would be the result? Only more heartache for him. No, 
the sooner he got out of England the better for other rea- 


344 


MR. ROWL 


sons than because of a distaste for captivity. Over there 
he could throw himself body and soul into the following of 
his Emperor’s paling star—for how it had paled in the last 
twelvemonths! . . . For a time he sat staring moodily 
into the empty hearth, and absent-mindedly stroking the 
black kitten which had come in with Susan when she cleared 
the breakfast table, and which had established itself on his 
knee. Then they both fell asleep. 

^ And, being pretty well exhausted and having had prac¬ 
tically no sleep the night before, Raoul, for his part, slept 
the minute hand twice round Miss Lavinia’s ormolu clock; 
though, if he had known the full extent of Miss Lavinia’s 
activities meanwhile, it is probable that his slumber would 
have been less profound. 

The door opening smartly woke him with a jump. 

‘‘Raoul—are you there?” It was Hervey Barrington’s 
voice. “Miserable lad! What a morning I have spent! 
How dared you do such a thing!” He was over him, shak¬ 
ing him, and the kitten, frightened and indignant, sprang 
from Raoul’s knee to his farther shoulder. 

“You have seen Miss Barrington, I suppose?” enquired 
the culprit, looking up at him rather shamefacedly. “I 

meant to get much farther than this, mais -” He gave 

a shrug, and the kitten promptly scratched his cheek. 
“But, for God’s sake, tell me what the officer from the 
Admiralty wanted—if you know by this time.” 

Captain Barrington, apparently in a most imusual state 
of excitement, took a turn down the room, flung his riding 
whip with a clatter on to the table, and said, “I do know! 
And never, never, as I am a living man, did a messenger 
bring news more ironical!” He laughed. Raoul was 
rather alarmed, and twisted in the chair to look at him. 

“Tell me quickly! Oh, Barrington, if I have harmed 
you-” 

“Harmed me! You have given me the wish of my 
heart,” said Hervey, and at that Raoul almost began to 
fear for his sanity. 

“Listen,” said Captain Barrington more calmly, “and 
don’t look so apprehensive. That naval officer yesterday 
who so terrified the timid Jeremy—and by the way,” he. 


WHAT MISS LAVINIA BROUGHT HOME 345 


added rather grimly, “I think Jeremy is timid with more 
reason this morning—^merely came to deliver to me a letter 
of introduction from a friend of mine in London. The 
letter, however, happens to contain some news as well. 
Would you like to see it? ’ ’ And without waiting for a reply 
he threw a missive on to Raoul’s knee. 

Raoul unfolded it and read: 


My dear Barrington: 

This is to make known to you Lieutenant Fanshawe late of the 
Sappho frigate, a promising young officer whom, as he has occasion 
to spend a few days in Stowey on private matters, I desire to introduce 
to your notice. He is in some sort a cousin of my wife’s, so we shall 
be grateful to you on his behalf for the light of your countenance. 


Raoul gave an exclamation. “Then the visit of that 
lieutenant yesterday was quite harmless—he only wished 
to present this letter of introduction?” 

“That was all. The rest was Jeremy’s guilty imagina¬ 
tion. You fled from a shadow, you see, you scoundrel!” 

“But why then did he question the coast guard about 
my drowning?” 

“From curiosity or zeal, I suppose. He said nothing 
about it to me this morning. But go on.” 

And now, my dear fellow, I seize this opportunity of giving you a 
piece of good news. You may take it from me—or better still, from 
Charles Denison of the Admiralty, who told me yesterday—that the 
sun of official approval is about to shine on you once more from behind 
that damnable black cloud which ought never to have obscured it, and 
that when the new first-rate Thetis, 90 guns, is commissioned—she is 
all but ready, as you probably know—her captain will be one George 
Hervey Barrington. 


Raoul sprang up, his face alight. Oh, Hervey! He 
was imconscious that he had used his Christian name. 
“Is it true?” 

“I suppose so,” said Hervey, half sitting on the table like 
a boy. “But go on—^the cream is yet to come. Read 2 ^;% 
I am thus to be reinstated.” 

Raoul obeyed. 


You will naturally wish to know why their Lordships have at last 
realized what they were throwing away by not employing you. It 


346 


^‘MR. ROWL’^ 


appears that, although your friends believed them to have your case 
continually under their benign consideration, they had really for¬ 
gotten all about you. But you may remember, about a month ago, 
sending to the commander of one of the Plymouth hulks a report on 
the drowning of an escaped French prisoner at Stowey. This report 
was forwarded in due course to the Transport Office, and came up in its 
turn at a meeting of the Board. As chance and your good star would 
have it, my dear Barrington, that meeting happened—I don’t quite 
know why—^to be attended by Admiral Clutterbuck of the Navy 
Board. "V^en it came to your name in connection with this document, 
it appears that he nearly lifted the roof off;—“What, is that fellow still 
kicMng his heels in Devonshire, reporting on escaped prisoners when 

he ought to be making ’em? By-1 never heard of such a scandal! ” 

etc., etc., all the more vigorously, no doubt, that he was partly responsi¬ 
ble for the scandal himself. The upshot of it was, I believe, a stiff 
breeze at the Admiralty, terminating in their Lordships’ resolution to 
appoint you to the Thetis, a piece of news obligingly communicated to 
me, as I say, by Charles Denison, who knew of what interest and 
pleasure it would be to me. 

Nota bene: If I did not know C. D. to be an absolutely trustworthy 
informant, I should not be so cruel as to pass on the statement. As 
it is, I have no hesitation in offering you, my dear Barrington, my 
warmest congratulations—a little antedated, perhaps, but not much. 
Indeed, I fancy you had better be looking over your kit. . . , 


Raoul dropped the letter and seized Hervey’s hands. 
“Oh, Hervey!’' he said again, with tears in his eyes. “Oh, 
my dear friend, let me congratulate you too!” 

“Why,” said Hervey, smiling and not unresponsive to the 
grip, “it is I who ought to thank you for bringing this about. 
If I had not sent in that lying report it would never have 
happened. A strange reward for something like felony, 
isn’t it? I did a better day’s work for myself than I thought 
when I hauled you into the Kestrel in spite of your efforts. 
. . . But you’ll admit that it is a little ironical!” 

“I am so delighted that I won’t admit anything,” cried 
Raoul. “Between this, and the kind intentions of the 
Transport Board towards me, all my thoughts of your 
Admiralty are rosy just now. I would decree them all 
haloes, des aureoles Men dories. Ninety guns, and new! 
With so large a vessel, Barrington, you will surely have to 
be made an admiral!” 

“ It is a pity that she will not be allowed to take you over 
to Morlaix. It would only be fitting!” 

Raoul thrust a hand into his pocket and turned a little 


WHAT MISS LAVINIA BROUGHT HOME 347 


away. “I am not so sure that I am going to Morlaix/' he 
observed nonchalantly. 

Hervey caught him by the shoulder and spun him round 
again. ‘‘Raoul, Raoul, you have done enough in that line! 
ijid to think that I wondered yesterday if any thought of 
my position would ever strike you! I could have lacked 
myself for it this morning when Mrs. Jeremy brought me 
your letter. . . . Now, if you hesitate to claim your 

freedom because of any scruples about me, I-” He 

paused as if selecting a threat. 

“What will you do?” asked Raoul with levity. “You 
can’t make me, if I don’t choose! I am my own master, 
parhleu /” 

“I can take the matter out of your hands by going up to 
the Transport Office and telling them everything—how I 
Hed about you and hid you. How would you like that, you 
crazy young—^nmaway? But my sister has been talking 
the matter over with me this morning, as I understand she 
has already done with you, and I think, as she does, that if 
you do not object to telling the Commissioners a few lies 
the matter can be put through without involving me at all. 

. . . You see, by successfully removing yourself from 

Fairhaven you have already severed the link between us 
to a certain degree. But perhaps, since you abandoned 
female attire, you have sworn a vow never to tell anything 
but the strict truth?” 

Raoul made a face at him. “ If I tell any more lies, they 
shall be the lies of Miss Barrington, who is a lady of great 
resource. I will trust her, perhaps, with my conscience. 
Tiens, I think I hear the wheels of her chariot returning.” 

Hervey listened a moment; the window was open. 
“Yes, I hear them too. Raoul,” he said with a change of 
voice, “I have scolded you for this escapade, though not 
nearly as much as you deserve, but I have not told you what 
I think of you for sacrificing yourself for my sake.” 

“But,” said Raoul with a little shrug, “there is no need. 
As it fell out, voyez-vous, it was silly of me to run away. 
And all that I sacrificed was a night’s rest.” 

“Was that really all?” asked Hervey. 

Raoul either could not or would not meet his eyes. He 
avoided them by the expedient of dropping suddenly down 


348 


“MR. ROWL 


into his former chair. *'Ma foi, was not that enough?'^ he 
asked perversely, “—a whole good night's sleep! That 
was why you found me asleep just now—like the little cat, 
who had perhaps lost hers too. Where is she then?" He 
stooped from the chair to search for the kitten, Hervey 
standing and looking at him, wondering if his half suspicion 
of a far greater sacrifice made for him were correct. From 
Miss Forrest's demeanour, indeed, when he had conveyed 
the letter left for her and the news to the ‘"Dolphin" this 
morning he had been able to deduce nothing. 

Suddenly Miss Lavinia's head appeared at the window. 

“Hervey, come and take the pony round to the stables 
for me, there's a good soul," she said. “I don't know 
where Jacob has got to.—No, not you, Mr. Rowl; you stay 
where you are, please!" 

Ob^iently Hervey went to the window, put one leg over 
the sill and vanished. Raoul scrambled out of the chair 
again, took up the letter of good news from the table and 
began to re-read it, but he had not got through the first 
paragraph before he was aware of the door opening. The 
voice of Susan thereupon murmured, “Miss Barrington 
said in here, if you please. Miss," and someone came in— 
a lady. 


CHAPTER V 

THE MARRIAGE OF DUNOIS 


‘‘The union of these two affections,” said Rasselas, “would produce all 
that could be wished. Perhaps there is a time when marriage might 
unite them—a time neither too early for the father nor too late for the 
husband.”— Rasselas, chap. xxix. 

“Oh,” she exclaimed as the door shut, “I thought no 
one-” 

Raoul, as still as she had suddenly become, stood per¬ 
fectly mute for a moment, Hervey Barrington's correspon¬ 
dence clutched in a tightening hand. Was he really going 
to have that five minutes after all? Then the room began 
to swing wamingly round him. Horrified at this tendency, 
he retreated a step or two till he could brace himself against 
the high back of the chair he had just quitted. 

“Will you . . . will you not sit down. Mademoi¬ 

selle?” he stammered out. 

She was lovelier than ever—as always when she flushed; 
he remembered it from Wanfield days. To his infatuated 
eyes the very clothes she wore seemed cloth of gold, though 
it was not at them that he was gazing. 

Juliana likewise continued to look across the room at 
him. “I think it is you who should sit down, M. des 
^blieres,” she said gently, on which, with a final effort 
to show that he was not such a poor thing after all, M. 
des Sablieres moved towards her. And speech was restored 
to him. 

“ Did you receive my letter—did you understand . . . 

did you. Mademoiselle? I had to do it . . . it seems 
it was a mistake. Captain Barrington was not in imme¬ 
diate danger . . . but I thought he was.” 

“Yes,” said Juliana with the same gentleness, “I per¬ 
fectly understood. Captain Barrington brought me your 
349 



350 


‘‘MR. ROWL’’ 


letter this morning. I honoured you for feeling so, and for 
acting as you did—to your own disadvantage."' 

The relief was so intense, her praise so intoxicating, that 
Raoul's heart seemed to stop for a moment, and he was 
therefore guilty, for the first time in his life, of sitting down 
while a lady stood; for he drifted rather quickly to the 
window seat and sank upon it. 

“Ah, that is right," murmured Miss Forrest, and, 
possibly with an idea of keeping him safely there, she also 
came and seated herself at the other comer. 

“You do really pardon my seeming discourtesy and in¬ 
gratitude?" once more enquired the runaway anxiously, 
leaning a little towards her. The fresh air steadied him— 
but her proximity did not. 

“ I saw neither to pardon," Juliana assured him gravely. 
“But what I do find difficult to forgive, M. des Sablieres, 
is the small consideration you have displayed for your own 
state of health. For that I do think you should be blamed! 
And how did you, scarcely convalescent, contrive to get as 
far as this?" 

“But I did not get so far," retorted Raoul. “Miss 
Barrington captured me in a little wood, and brought me 
here. I was not making for this house. You . . . 

you were surprised to find me here, I think?" he ventured. 

“ Indeed, I had no idea at all that I should see you," re¬ 
plied Miss Forrest rather hastily. “ I must explain to you 
how I come to be here myself. The fact is that Miss Bar¬ 
rington is an old friend of my father's—though it had not 
occurred to him that Captain Barrington could be her 
brother, for in those days, I gather, he did not know that 
she had one, that brother being so much younger. Well, 
Miss Barrington came to call upon my father this morning 
at the inn at Stowey, and in the end was so kind as to 
carry me off to dine with her." 

“Without mentioning that I was here," supplemented 
Raoul, in something that was between a question and a 
statement. “I wonder . . ." And there he stopped, 
suddenly realizing that a silence on Miss Barrington's part 
otherwise so ine^licable could only be due to strategy, 
and a strategy directed . . . yes, to what end? The 
same conviction had evidently dawned on Miss Forrest 


THE MARRIAGE OF DUNOIS 


351 


also; she became very still for a moment, and then re¬ 
marked in a detached tone, ‘'What extremely fine asters 
those are!” 

“I had not observed them,” said Raoul, following the 
direction of her eyes. The flowers in question, he then 
saw, were in a bowl on the table in the centre of the room, 
but he was quite able to admire them from the window seat 
where Miss Forrest and he were sitting, and he was sorry 
that she should feel it necessary to rise, go to the bowl, and 
bend over them as if to smell them. Even he was aware 
that asters had no scent. Yet he understood her need 
of a diversion and followed her to the table but slowly. 

“My father was unable to accompany me here to-day, 
as he is confined to his room with gout,” volunteered Miss 
Forrest, with her back to him, taking an aster from the bowl. 

“I am extremely sorry to hear that,” returned Raoul. 
“I feel that I am the unworthy cause of it.” 

“ It is not a serious attack.” Here she put back the aster 
with care, turned and faced him, and said, somewhat to 
his surprise: “This matter of your cartel, M. des Sabli- 
eres—^since we have met we might as well discuss it. You 
explained in your letter why you felt you could not claim 
it, but surely we could think of some plan which would en¬ 
able you to do so without involving Captain Barrington.” 

It leapt to Raoul’s mind that Miss Barrington’s scheme 
had probably been expounded to her in the pony chaise 
(which made that astute lady’s silence as to his whereabouts 
still more remarkable). No wonder, then, that Miss Forrest 
did not wish to refer explicitly to the author of the plan. 
She went on: 

“If we can do so satisfactorily, I still think that when 
my father is better you might accompany us to London, as 
I proposed yesterday. One cannot, of course, tell how long 
his attack may last. ...” 

As she spoke Raoul was aware of a strange, rending vi¬ 
sion of the truth about that journey to London. Yester¬ 
day the prospect of accompanying her thither had seemed 
like heaven. Delusion! It would not be heaven at all— 
it would be the fate of Tantalus! He must not let himself 
be beguiled into submitting to it. 

He looked down, and beheld the kitten running per- 


352 


‘‘MR. ROWL’’ 


severingly after its own tail. “ If you will excuse me, Made¬ 
moiselle, I think that I would—I mean, that I had better 
go separately.'' 

“But why?" Evidently much surprised, Juliana faced 
him across the table and the flowers. “Why, M. des 
Sabli^res? I thought that, travelling with my father, you 
would in a sense be protected from enquiry until your 
freedom was established. That was why I proposed it; 
and my father also thinks well of the plan." 

Raoul looked up for a moment from the gyrations of the 
kitten. “ You are all kindness, Mademoiselle. If I had a 
hundred lives, I could never repay what you have done 
for me." 

“Then why have you changed your mind? Yesterday 
you approved of the plan, I thought." 

To that he said nothing. 

“It must be, I suppose," said Juliana slowly, and in an 
altered voice, “that you do not wish to have my society 
for a couple of days. Then evidently your forgiveness of 
the injmy I have done you is not so complete as you 
pretend!" 

How could she be so unseeing—and so cruel! “Juli¬ 
ana!" said Raoul under his breath, and with that, throwing 
away discretion, went on desperately, “I cannot let you 
think that! If you press me so I must tell you the reason, 
though it would be more honourable to keep silence. 

. . . There is only one journey in the world that I 
want to take with you, and since I can never take it I will 
travel alone now. Indeed, I would rather say farewell to 
you here, to-day . . . because I have less fortitude 
than I thought. . . . And now that I have said this 
you will wish it too . . . but I hope you will forgive 
me because you forced me to tell you the truth." 

She was, he knew, standing rigid on the other side of the 
table; he knew it though he was not looking at her. It 
broke his heart to end like this, and directly the words 
had burst out of him he would have given almost anything 
to recall them. But the best that he could hope for now was 
that she would be merciful, and let him go without wither¬ 
ing him for his presumption and folly. He looked at her 
to see. 


THE MARRIAGE OF DUNOIS 


353 


But Juliana too was standing with downcast eyes, and 
she was very pale, and twisting her fingers not at all like 
a goddess about to launch thunderbolts. 

“I . . . I did not know you . . . felt thus,’' 
she murmured almost inaudibly. . . . I am 
very . . 

Seeing her so clement Raoul took courage. “Do not say 
that you are soiry for me, for I am not—except for my own 
wealmess in telling you. Only say that you forgive me!” 

“I . . . was not going to say that I was sorry,” 
replied Juliana. She was now nervously stripping off her 
gloves. “Only that I was . . . very much sur¬ 

prised.” And immediately she sat down on the chair by 
the table, put her elbows on the latter, and covered her face 
with her hands. 

By this manoeuvre Raoul found himself extremely dis¬ 
concerted, for it left him^ no prospect of her features by 
which to gauge her sentiments. Yet perhaps, after all, 
they were going to be able to part good friends; he began 
to have at least a hope of it. And with the hope came also 
to him the weak-minded idea of allowing himself a partial 
reprieve. Might it not be almost necessary to call on her 
father in London, even if he journeyed thither sepamtely? 
Certainly it would be more courteous. He was weighing 
the manner in which he should make this retrograde sug¬ 
gestion, when, from behind the shelter of her hands, Juliana 
Forrest utter^ these amazing words: 

“What did you mean about the journey you wished to 
take—with . . . me?” 

“Did you not really understand, most beautiful?’’ asked 
Raoul some twenty minutes later, when they sat side by 
side on Miss Lavinia’s sofa. He still held her hand in both 
his own. 

Juliana turned her head away, and her reply was evasive 
and incoherent. “You see, I was so astonished,” she mur¬ 
mured. “I never thought that you . . . and then 

you were so modest ... so I had to be horribly 
bold ^ * 

“But I shall be called ‘impudent,’” said Raoul half 
to himself. “Your father-” 


354 


‘^MR. ROWL^' 


Juliana looked round. “I do not pretend that I can 
bring Papa to reason all at once. It will take a little time, and 
we shall have to be patient.” Laughter and remembrance 
came into her eyes. “I fear he will not say, ^De rm fille 
Isabelle sois Tepoux d rinstant!' But in the end . . .” 

Raoul loosed the hand. “He will call me an adven¬ 
turer, a fortune-hunter. I suppose that, unfortunately, you 
possess a fortune?—Oh, have I been guilty of a calem —of 
a pun?” 

“A fortime? I have, and I have not. My money is 
not settled upon me. Papa can cut me off with a shilling 
if he likes.” 

''Ala bonne heure!” said her suitor with a sigh of relief. 
“Perhaps, however, he will leave you a guinea. . . . 

At any rate, he cannot so easily call me those names.— 
But there is another embarrassment. You perhaps suc¬ 
ceed him—no? Why do you laugh, ma toute belle? I 
know that it does so happen sometimes, even in this un¬ 
gallant country.” 

“Not half so ungallant a country as yours has always 
been. Sir,” retorted Juliana. “We have no Salic law 
against queens in England! No, as it happens, the title 
goes to my uncle, since I had the bad luck not to be bom 
a boy. Is that a disappointment? If you thought that 
you were going to marry a peeress in her own right-” 

“The bad luck not to be bora a boy I ” exclaimed Raoul in 
tones of horror. "Grand Dieu, suppose you had been! 
Wliat a terrible thought! ... As for the other ques¬ 
tion, I must own that I have a prejudice in favour of a wife 
who bears her husband’s name. Now ask me how a poor 
cavalry soldier is going to support a wife at all, particu¬ 
larly one to whom he owes the price of a sapphire neck¬ 
lace—did you not say sapphires?” 

“How are you going to support a wife, 'Mr. Row!’?” 
asked Juliana obediently. 

“In the first place,” replied “Mr. Rowl” airily, “by my 
sword. But, secondly, on the money that my rich uncle 
in Orleans^ will leave me at his death, which will shortly 
occur, I think—^money which I have sometimes intended to 
refuse because he is personally odious to me, but which I 
shall now make the sacrifice of accepting for your sake.” 


THE MARRIAGE OF DUNOIS 


355 


“You are very magnanimous—and absurd!’' said Juli¬ 
ana laughing. “And as for me, you have no idea what a 
quantity of methods of needlework Laetitia Bentley and I 

learnt at school. So if we have not enough to live upon- 

"V^at is the matter?” For all at once the optimistic lover 
gave an exclamation and sprang to his feet. 

“I fear I go too fast,” he said dejectedly. “Our coun¬ 
tries are at war; I am your enemy, Juliana, and I am return¬ 
ing to fight once more against you over there. If every 
other difficulty were gone, how could we marry each other 
in such conditions—for I would never consent to leave 
you behind in England when you were my wife, and I 
could not well take you to France, even if you wished it.” 

The gaiety of a moment ago was struck from him, and 
the triumph; he looked tired and tragic. Juliana got up and 
placed her hand on his arm. 

, “No war lasts for ever, dear enemy,” she said consolingly. 
“Even this will end some day. We must wait, that is all.” 

Raoul put his lips to the little hand. “I would wait till 
next century for you! But it needs two to wait, mm cceur. 
And while you wait for me . . . del, who am I that I 
should demand such a thing! . . . you will meet so 

many other men, rich, and of your own nation, a thousand 
times better matches than I—though hardly of a better 
family,” he added, with a little lift of the head—“and you 
will regret. . . . Oh, I ought not to ask it! 

“But what if it is I who ask it of you?” returned Juliana 
in her soft tones. “You, who have gone to prison for 
my sake, and were ready to return to it in its worst form 
for Captain Barrington’s, surely you are too chivalrous to 
refuse me that! Oh, Raoul,” she went on, shaking her head 
at him, “why did you fear that I would not understand 
when you decided to throw your freedom behind you 
yesterday? Why, it is a habit with you—I am used to it! 
You did it again at Norman Cross when you sacrificed 
yourself rather than fail your comrades. . . . Yes, I 

have come these last months to see what you are—much 
better, I know, than you see it yourself! ” ' 

As if ashamed, Raoul had put a hand over his eyes. 
''Mon Dieu, I do not know through what spectacles of 
rose-colour you look,” he said indistinctly. "Vous rivez— 


856 


MR. ROWL’’ 


je ne suis pas comme ga!*' And then suddenly he turned 
on her, his voice shaking slightly. “Are you sure that this 
is not all a dream, Juliana—that you wish really to take 
that joiumey with me? For if it is a dream, do not let me 
go on dreaming . . . make it end quickly!” 

Juliana took his two hands and folded them for a moment 
in her own, as once in prison. And, looking gravely at each 
other, they both saw, perhaps, glimpses of the long road 
they should eventually travel together. Then, gently, his 
arms went round her, and the Mss of Norman Cross was 
repaid in full. 


THE END 








my 
















